


Terrible Beauty

by Odie



Series: Terrible Beauty [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Epic, F/M, Fantasy, Gamefic, Long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 74,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odie/pseuds/Odie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also known as "Blight and Peace". A lifelong story arc of those who become Ferelden's two remaining Grey Wardens. My attempt to connect some of the canon plot points, plus a more hopefully more realistic outcome post-Blight. Bent canon rather than true AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Day in the Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, kids. This is gonna be a long one. It starts about nine years before game, and will go to post-Awakening and beyond
> 
> This is my attempt at an answer to all the Alistair/Cousland fics that are out there which are more fluff than substance. My goal is to show that the Alistair/Cousland romance can work well in fic, if you take off your rose colored glasses and make things interesting. In addition, you can achieve this effect without turning Cousie into a Super Human Super Hero Who Does No Wrong.
> 
> In short, love and sometimes fluff tempered by pain and sacrifice and tough, questionable decisions. If you've been paying attention and not just painting rainbows in the sky, this should sound familiar!
> 
> Okay, off my soapbox for now. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Odie

  


~ Insert standard "All characters owned by Bioware" disclaimer here. ~

.oOo.

* * *

~ Elisara ~

* * *

"And so," Aldous continued, droning on and on as only the old tutor could. "With the death of Brandel the Defeated, it was his daughter, Moria, who revived the efforts of the rebellion. She gathered those loyal to her, and it was they who proclaimed her Ferelden's true Queen."

Elisara ignored him. She had heard this lesson before, or maybe it was that she'd read it in a book somewhere. Yes, it was a book, a big thick one that detailed the histories of Calenhad's descendants. Books were always so much more interesting than Aldous's lectures. After all, in books she could skip the boring parts.

"Elisara!"

She snapped her attention back into focus. "Yes, Aldous?"

"Do you remember which of the nobles sworn to Moria's cause betrayed her, bringing about her death?"

"Um…" Blast it all, she must have skipped that part. She grabbed onto the first name that came to her. "Arl Rendorn of Redcliffe?"

Aldous shook his head. "No, child, the arl of Redcliffe was one of King Maric's staunchest allies. The correct answer is Bann Ceorlic."

"Ah yes, that's right, I remember now," Elisara lied.

"Of course, child."

"I do remember some of the story, you know. I know that Teryn Loghain rescued King Maric after he managed to escape the Bann's trap."

"Very good child, but considering that is one of the most well known parts of the story, it doesn't exactly tell me that you were paying attention."

Elisara chewed her lip, thinking fast. _._ "Ask me another question then, Aldous."

"Very well," the old man agreed. "How did Bann Ceorlic meet his demise?"

Elisara tried not to grin, but it was so hard not to. She had not skipped _this_ part of the story. "King Maric killed him, in his own hall."

"That should not please you, my lady. It was justice. Necessary perhaps, but not something that should please you."

"I bet it pleased King Maric."

"You would be wise as to never to ask him about that," Aldous scolded her. He rubbed his eyes in frustration. "I don't think we're going to have any more luck with your lessons today. You're dismissed, child."

Elisara snapped shut the book she'd been pretending to read and leapt up out of her chair.

"It figures that this is when you most closely listen to me..." Aldous muttered ruefully as Elisara flew out the library door.

.oOo.

* * *

She inhaled deeply as soon as she was away from the musty air of the library. The late August heat was oppressive, especially within the walls of Castle Cousland, but Elisara didn't intend to stay there long. If her stomach had any say in the matter, which it usually did, she'd be making a quick stop in the kitchens before executing her escape.

It didn't take Elisara long to find her way to her room and out of the dress her mother insisted that she wear for her lessons. She left the dress on her bed as she walked over to her closet, mostly because she was sick of being yelled at for leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor. Pushing aside all the other things she only wore when Mother decreed it, she found her real clothes on the closet floor. A loose tunic and a pair of Fergus's old pants sat on top of her various pairs of rarely-worn shoes. Elisara slipped into the clothing quickly, and despite the heat felt much more comfortable. But she was not quite yet ready to head out.

She kept her favorite things in the entire world hanging on the inside of her closet door. She grabbed the leather satchel, dyed a dark indigo purple and given to her by her father after he returned from one of his many visits to Orlais, complete with the Cousland family crest embroidered on its flap in ivory beads. Next to the satchel hung her two most treasured items; a pair wooden daggers that dangled off of the braided belt she had stolen from Fergus's old things. Quickly she laced the belt around her hips and tied the sack at her left side, closing the closet door when she was done. She glanced at herself in her vanity mirror while running a brush through her hair, preparing just in case she ran into Mother. The fewer easy excuses Mother could come up with to get in the way of Elisara's plans, the better. She had learned the hard way that keeping her brown mop of hair neat was one of the easiest ways to avoid a talking-to.

Yanking open her door, Elisara was shocked to see her brother standing just outside her bedroom, hand poised as if he was about to knock. "Ah, there you are, little sister!" He stepped back as he took in the scowl on Elisara's face.

"What do you want, Fergus?"

"Mother sent me to collect you. She's having lunch made up for the three of us."

Andraste's Mercy. If Mother sent Fergus to find her, she must be serious.

"Fine, fine, lead the way," she agreed, putting on her best sulky-face.

"Cheer up, Sister, this shouldn't take too much time away from your afternoon of nefarious deeds," Fergus said with a grin and a wink.

"Oh stuff a sock in it, Fungus."

"So long as it's not one of your filthy ones. Talk about fungus..."

Elisara rolled her eyes. This lunch couldn't be over soon enough.

.oOo.

* * *

"Maker's Breath, Fergus, why didn't you make her change clothes?"

"You sent me as your page, Mother, not as Elisara's nursemaid," Fergus replied, indignant.

Teyrna Eleanor sighed heavily. "Very well. At least we have no guests to entertain today."

Elisara sat down on the ornate chair surrounding the small dining table set up in the center of Mother's solar. The table had been laid out with several dishes; a fresh, warm salad made with bacon and spinach that made Elisara wrinkle her nose, pieces of meat and thinly sliced cucumber stuffed between dainty slices of bread, fresh slices of tomato with white cheese melted over them... and at the far end of the table from Elisara, a plate of Orlesian-style lemon cookies. The sight of the cookies made Elisara hate the thought of the spinach salad all the more, since it meant she would have to eat an inordinate amount of the vile green stuff before she'd be allowed one.

"So, what's the occasion, Mother?" Fergus asked. Fergus was sixteen, handsome if the servant's chatter was to be believed, and Father's heir. There was a certain amount of freedom granted him that had so far been denied to Elisara, even though she had turned nine this spring.

"Do I need a reason to simply share a meal alone with my beloved children?" Eleanor replied.

"Of course not. But with Father gone to Orlais, I have my responsibilities to attend to," Fergus said with an air of self-importance. Elisara could barely restrain the snort that almost escaped her. From what she had seen, Fergus's "responsibilities" tended to consist of training with the guards, smiling and nodding at whatever Seneschal Reginold decided to share with him, or drinking at the pub down in Highever with the Captain of the City Watch.

"Of course, dear," Eleanor said unconvincingly. "But surely you can spare an hour for your dear mother?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Fergus grumbled.

"Thank the Maker for small mercies then," Eleanor said with a smile. She gestured to the elven serving maid standing nearby. "Winoah, could you serve the children, please? Make sure Elisara gets a good portion of the spinach salad."

Elisara groaned. It was then that Eleanor turned her attention onto her daughter. "And what of you, Elisara? How were your lessons this morning?"

"Boring and useless," Elisara said, frowning as Winoah slid a plate containing a mountain of slimy green leaves in front of her. "Mother, why can't Aldous teach me about the things I read about in my books? Dragons and spies and assassins and sea voyages and the lives of Orlesian lords and ladies and stuff?"

"Because many of those things are either exaggerated for the sake of the tale, or they are flat-out not true," Eleanor explained as a matter of fact. "Any history Aldous is to teach you is to be a recounting of actual events, not something scribbled down in some tavern based off of a bard's embellishment of the truth."

"But real things are so boring!" Elisara complained.

"Whining is unbecoming in a noble lady, dear," Eleanor chided. "He also has to teach you things beyond tales, true or otherwise. Last I spoke with him, he said you were falling behind with your figures and sums."

Elisara bit her lip. "Numbers make my head go all fuzzy. They're so confusing Mother!"

"And how in Andraste's name do you expect to grow up and successfully manage the accounts of your estate, if you never learn your maths?"

She hated dealing with Mother. Father was so easy to bend to her will, with a bit of a pouty lip and a sad tale. Mother was a different animal entirely.

"Maybe I won't be a proper lady," Elisara muttered sullenly. "Maybe I'll be a warrior instead."

"Stuff and nonsense. A woman of lower standing, especially one of secondary or tertiary birth, could be allowed a martial life if she showed the inclination... but we've had this conversation before, child. You are a Cousland, and your father and I expect you to remember that."

"Is that what Grandpa and Gramma told you as a child? You weren't a Cousland then, you were a Robinson!" she exclaimed petulantly.

Eleanor sighed. "It is unwise to speak ill of the dead, Ellie."

"It's not ill if it's the truth!"

"That's enough! Maker's Mercy, that tongue of yours is out of control, child. Do not think that being your father's daughter will spare you the switch were such outbursts to continue."

Elisara hung her head. Mother had won. Mother _always_ won. "Yes, Mother. I'm sorry, Mother."

Eleanor nodded. "Now, children, I did have a reason for summoning you today. Elisara, eat your salad."

Elisara pretended to ignore her mother as she finished her third tiny sandwich.

"King Maric is going to Antiva this winter, for an official visit of state," Eleanor began. "He has requested that Fergus and I accompany him."

"What?" Fergus sputtered. "The king wants me to go to Antiva? Why?" He seemed to be both excited and terrified by this request.

"And why does Fergus get to go and not me?" Elisara added, petulant. Fergus got _everything_. It was so _unfair_ she could just scream, but that would only upset Mother even more.

"The king wishes us there so that we can more properly negotiate a possible marriage alliance."

Fergus looked like he'd just swallowed a frog. Inwardly, Elisara gloated. Suddenly she no longer regretted not being invited on this trip.

"From what Maric tells me," Eleanor continued, "There are at least half a dozen eligible daughters among the families of Antiva's merchant princes. You should be thankful, Fergus. You may even have some modicum of choice in the matter."

"Forgive me if I don't leap up and kiss you out of sheer joy, Mother," Fergus said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"If your marriage can help continue good relations between Antiva and Ferelden, all will benefit. Antiva is one of the most economically sound nations in the world, but one of the largest things they lack access to is a steady supply of timber, which Ferelden has in abundance. They are willing to go to great lengths to secure such a resource, but not without some reciprocity. And I need not remind you how Ferelden is lacking in most resources that are _not_ trees, stone, or metal ores." Eleanor paused to take a bite of her food. "But I'm sure that trade relations are the last of your concerns about the issue."

"Now there's the understatement of the age," Fergus grumbled.

"It would behoove you, Son, to put a positive face on this. It's going to happen, even if I have to have to drag you to Antiva in chains. And that would certainly put a damper on your prospects."

"Yes, Mother. I will... try." Fergus replied. His tone didn't give Elisara the feeling that he would do anything close to that.

Several long moments passed in silence. Elisara stared at the giant green pile on her plate, watching as it seemed to grow as her other food items disappeared. The more she thought about it, the happier she was not to be going to Antiva with Fergus. Life in Highever was so much more interesting when Mother wasn't around, and such times didn't happen very often.

"When are you and Fergus leaving, Mother?" Elisara asked, a picture of guileless curiosity.

"Near the end of Harvetsmere. The winds will be more favorable then, or so I'm lead to believe. We will be accompanied by several cargo ships and a small flotilla of warships. The King will require such protection, and since this is a trade mission it makes sense for us to bring along trade goods. I would be surprised if there were no less than two dozen ships required to undertake this venture."

That seemed to get Fergus's attention. "Truly? Will we be traveling with the King?"

"That depends on what Rear Admiral Cunningham thinks is best. It may make more sense for us to travel in different ships, just in case something unfortunate happens. Or, he may want to keep us all on one ship, in order that his warships can better protect us were we attacked by pirates."

"Pirates!" Elisara interjected. "Momma, do you really think there'll be pirates? Why can't I come with you!"

"Pirates are _not_ something to get excited about, Ellie," her mother scolded. "They are dangerous criminals, not at _all_ like the ones you read about in those trashy novels you keep finding. You still haven't eaten your spinach, young lady."

Elisara sulked. She morosely poked at her food with her fork, pushing it around the plate and picking out the bits of bacon.

"Don't be too upset, dear. You're going on your own trip this winter."

"I am?"

"Indeed." Eleanor smiled when she saw Elisara's change of heart. "While King Maric is in Antiva, he has requested that your father come to Denerim to serve on his council and assist Teyrn Mac Tir with the regency."

"And I get to go with him?" Pirates aside, this was getting better and better. There was always something going on in Denerim. And the people there were generally so very respectful of her, not like here in Highever. In Highever most of the guards and servants knew her tricks, and knew what to watch for. In Denerim, she was treated practically as a princess.

"Well, we will all travel to Denerim together, since that will be where the fleet is leaving from. But yes, you will be staying with him in Denerim."

No Mother to ruin her fun _and_ the whole winter in Denerim? Elisara couldn't believe her luck. She leapt out of her chair, clapping as she did a little dance. "I'm going to go pack right now!"

Eleanor gave her daughter a long suffering look. "Child, you have two months to prepare. And I will see to your things personally, for you will need to dress properly in the capital. Were I to allow you to pack your own clothes, you would just grab that old chest of Fergus's clothes that I keep meaning to give to the Chantry and call it a day. Now, sit down and finish your spinach."

She wished that spinach would burn on Andraste's pyre. Elisara sighed an over-dramatic sigh. "Yes, Mother."

.oOo.

* * *

~ Alistair ~

* * *

The courtyard of Redcliffe Castle felt like a giant oven. The walls, the flagstones, and especially the main stairs seemed to radiate heat not unlike a larger than life brazier. It was this heat that hit Alistair in the face as he opened the keep's front doors. He let out a huge breath of air and wiped his sweaty forehead. Thankfully, it appeared that his assigned tasks were done for the day. He had helped Attwick load and drive his oxcart full of milk containers down the hill to Redcliffe's dairy, which had earned him a handful of freshly made cheddar curds for a mid-morning snack. Then he had returned to the stables and helped to muck the cow's stalls while they were put to pasture. It was during this task that the arlessa's page had arrived in the stables, requesting that Lady Isolde's saddlebags be brought up to her rooms. Which was an odd request, Alistair thought, since the arlessa had mysteriously stopped riding her horse this past spring. High summer was usually one of her favorite times to be out and about. Perhaps this explained the more peevish temper that seemed to possess her lately. The page, of course, could not be bothered to actually carry something heavier than a tea tray, so it fell to Alistair to carry the cumbersome bags up to the castle.

He had left the bags with the serving girl who answered Lady Isolde's chamber door. She graciously did not announce who had fulfilled the arlessa's request. Such fortune was not always enough, for the arlessa seemed to take pleasure in deriding Alistair at every given opportunity. The elf assigned as her chambermaid knew this, and Alistair took her kindness as a blessing from the Maker. He hastened to leave the keep as quickly as possible, attempting to avoid any confrontation.

The heat let up slightly as he walked under the portcullis and through the keep's thick outer wall. Alistair tried his best to appear like he was walking somewhere with a purpose, lest someone stop him and give him a task to busy his idle hands. As soon as he crossed the keep's outer bridge, he veered away from the direction of the stables. No need to take unnecessary chances, after all. Carefully, keeping off of the main paths as often as possible, he wound his way down to the road to Redcliffe Village. The gates at the bottom of the hill were open, and he ran through them before anyone could ask him where he was going. He tried to run like the man he'd heard about in one of Lille the kitchen girl's stories, the one that ran miles and miles from one of the cities in Rivain to the seashore, to inform the sea forces that the war was over. Though he was pretty sure that the man in the story keeled over dead after delivering his message. Alistair slowed his pace as he considered this. After all, it was so very, very hot. The air felt like a wet blanket, thick and uncomfortable. The mist that hit his face as he crossed over the bridge in Redcliffe Village was a welcome relief, but he knew his destination would offer even more relief so he did not linger.

He could hear the playful shouts and shrieks as far away as the main square. It did not take him long to make his way to the sandy outcropping on Lake Calenhad where the local children congregated on days like this. Alistair quickly stripped down to his smallclothes, but not before carefully tucking his mother's amulet into the pocket of his pants. He folded his clothes messily before placing them in a pile next to one of the shoreline house's support pillars. Walking out onto the sandy lake shore, it was odd how after feeling so uncomfortably hot all day, for the sand still felt warm and good on his feet. Running with youthful enthusiasm, he bounded into the lake, splashing as he went. Soon Alistair was in deep enough to let his feet go out from under him. He floated for a bit, letting the water pull the heat of the day from his tired arms and legs. Suddenly, a wave washed over Alistair's face.

"Hey Alistair! Come play Catch the Mole with us!" Jordie, one of the children from the village, invited him.

"Alright!" Alistair said, finding his feet again. "Who's the Mole?"

"Braya is! Come on!"

The Mole, Braya the cooper's daughter, was stumbling around in the water with her eyes tightly shut. Other children ran or swam around her, calling "Mole! Mole!" while some dared to tap her on the shoulder or poke her in the back. She had to catch the next Mole in the act, grabbing and dunking them under the water, before her turn as Mole was ended. The game went on for some time, with the Mole changing more than a few times, though not without several fights about whether or not a person was well and truly dunked.

Eventually, a boy named Triston became the Mole. Alistair made a motion with his hand, calling the other kids over to him without saying anything.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do," he began when everyone was close enough. "Everyone make a big circle around Tris. Then we'll circle around him like windmill blades. He'll be so confused he won't know which way is up!" Several of the other children cheered their agreement. "So come on then! Follow me!"

He splashed out to where Triston was, the other kids falling in line behind him. They called "Mole! Mole!" while splashing water toward their intended target. When the circle was halfway formed, a new voice cut through the playful din.

"Well would you look at that! He's got them all trained up like Orlesian lapdogs."

Alistair tried to ignore what was said, but the words had still made his stomach lurch like he was going to be sick. Caen. Caen was the squire of one of Redcliffe's knights, and short of Lady Isolde he was probably the person in Redcliffe who got the most enjoyment out of mocking him simply for existing.

"Hey Bastard!" Caen called. That was his way, he always said "Bastard" like it was a proper name. "Do they do any other tricks?"

"Sod off, Caen," Alistair called back. He tried to focus on the game, but no one seemed to really be paying attention to it any longer. Even Triston had opened his eyes and turned his attention to the older boy on the shore. As was usual, he traveled with three of his squire friends. Alistair could never keep their names straight.

"Yeah, Caen," Jordie chimed in. "It's just a game. We were just trying to confuse Tris."

"I bet that's what he told you. Them nobles are all the same. Expecting us who are not so special as them to leap when they say jump."

"It wasn't like that at all!" Jordie argued.

"Just ignore him, Jordie," Alistair said. "He lives for stuff like this."

"See what I mean? Issuing orders to the common folk, like it were his right."

"Sod _off_ , Caen!" Alistair turned away from the boy and headed toward the opposite side of the beach. He had come here to cool off, not to start fights.

"Aww, look at Daddy's Little Bastard, running away when his authority is threatened. Or are you just going to higher ground so that you can more effectively order your minions from on high?"

"Leave him alone," Triston said. "He never did anything to you."

"Oh no?" Caen replied. "My father says the only reason Arl Eamon keeps him around at all is because he feels guilty for snogging a serving girl while in his cups."

"Your father don't know his ass from a hole in the ground," Jordie snapped.

"He does so!" With that, Caen tore off his shirt and stomped menacingly toward Jordie. Alistair turned around as he heard Caen splash into the water. "He's Seneschal Povich's right hand. He knows more than you do, that's for sure! He says the Bastard's the arl's get, and he's in a position to know what's what!" He stopped, standing threateningly over Jordie, his face bright red in his anger.

"Don't you dare touch him, you pig," Alistair threatened. "Or you'll be sorry."

Caen looked in Alistair's direction. "Whatcha gonna do, Bastard? Call your guards down to beat this piece of street trash back into his place?"

"No," Alistair said as he walked purposefully toward the pair of angry boys. "I'm going to do _this_." And with that, he punched the older boy smartly in the face.

From there it turned into a full-on juvenile brawl. The water added an extra element of danger, for handfuls of sand could be flung and heads held beneath water. Caen especially preferred this technique. He eventually got Alistair in a head lock, and held him under the shallow water. Triston thumped his fist on Caen's back, to little effect, as Alistair struggled to fight off the larger, stronger boy.

"What in the name of Andraste's Flaming Sword is going on here?" a booming voice bellowed. It was one of the guards from Redcliffe's retinue.

"Come to protect the Bastard, are you?" Caen spat.

"I've come to see the sea serpent I swore had beached itself over here. And lo and behold, I find a bunch of squalling brats instead," the guard replied.

"He started it!" Caen shouted, pointing at Alistair.

"I don't give a dragon's ass who started it! It ends _now_." The guard crossed his arms and surveyed the crowd of children, scowling. "Party's over, boys. Anyone still here by the time I count to ten will spend a night in the stocks."

No one needed to be told twice. With some chaotic scuffling to grab various bits of clothing, the shoreline quickly found itself empty and lifeless, save for the guardsman.

.oOo.

* * *

Heading straight back to Redcliffe's grounds immediately would have been crazy. Alistair knew that Caen and his thugs would be waiting for him. Spotting some conveniently stacked barrels off in a hidden corner, he climbed over them and squeezed into a small space between them and the wall. Still dressed in only his smallclothes, Alistair hugged his tunic and pants close to him as he squatted down to catch his breath. When he was sure he hadn't been followed, he carefully climbed back out into the alleyway and put his clothes and boots back on. Digging into his pocket, Alistair sighed in relief when he realized his mother's amulet hadn't been lost in the shuffle. Carefully, he put the long chain back around his neck and tucked the pendant back under his shirt. Peering out into the main street, it appeared that things had returned to normal in the village, but Alistair still feared just how long Caen and his bloodthirsty buddies would lie in wait for him on the path back to the keep.

He kept his eyes sharp as he walked through the haphazard wooden walkways that connected some of the stilted buildings near the lake shore. Soon enough, he found himself near the rickety bridge that lead to the docks, where the fishermen tied their boats. It was as good a place as any to sit and wait for Caen to get bored with keeping his blood boiling. Alistair sat down at the end of one of the docks, swinging his feet in the air. The late-summer waters were too low for him to dangle his feet in the lake as he sat, but that didn't matter. Swinging them was relaxing in a way. It helped to calm his mind, the rhythmic swish-swishing as his feet went back and forth.

A bit of the setting sun was still visible behind the cliff where Redcliffe Castle sat. It almost appeared to grow right out of the cliff itself, with its shear walls above and steep cliffs below. Redcliffe was the only home that Alistair had ever known, and yet while he didn't hate the place, to think of it is "home" felt wrong somehow. It certainly didn't make him feel the way that the concept of home sounded in the songs and tales. Not that he heard a lot of those in the stables, but feast days and cold winter nights often lead to the castle staff gathering and entertaining one another. He supposed the halls and the stones could count as his home, but only in the physical sense. Home should be more than just walls and a ceiling, he thought. Home should mean people, people who cared about him. Home should mean family. And what family did Alistair have? Sure, some in the castle were kind to him, and Arl Eamon had always tried to watch out for him. But everyone always had others who they counted as real family, people they cared about more than the pitiable orphan boy that they sometimes shared a kind word with. He was missing something, something important. He could feel it, see it, almost touch it, smell it in the breeze. Yet it stayed out of reach.

He pulled his amulet out of his shirt, rubbing his thumb over its face. He'd had a mother, once. Depending on who you talked to, she either died when he was born, or when he was very young, or she was sent away for reasons no one would discuss. Not that Alistair ever asked questions about his mother, but he heard the whispers when people thought he wasn't listening. He knew from working in the stables that he had to have had a father as well. He knew that what the Chantry taught about how babies were made wasn't true. Babies didn't appear out of the Fade. Serving girls who fell pregnant, married or otherwise, were always the subject of rampant gossip both good and bad. But who was _his_ father? Was it Arl Eamon? People thought that, sure, but the arl had never confirmed this, and Alistair had always found him to be an honest man. He would have said something, Alistair was sure.

The sun winked out of sight behind the towering cliff, sending long shadows over Lake Calenhad. It was still plenty light out, for the height of the cliff distorted just how much longer it truly was until sunset. Still, it did mean that the day was wearing on. Alistair knew he should get back to the stables. The cows would need to be milked again and put down for the night. Hopefully Ser Barrett would have noticed his squire's absence by now and given him some task to do that didn't involve pummeling stable boys. Turning away from the docks, Alistair headed back over the rickety bridge and up the winding path to the castle grounds.

.oOo.

* * *

"There you are! Alistair!"

The relief that Alistair had felt for not being assaulted on his way back up the path disappeared at the sound of Mitchell the stable master's voice. He hurried over to where the man stood, next to the stable doors.

"Seneschal Povich was down here earlier," Mitchell explained. "He said the arl was looking for you, and to send you along to the keep as soon I saw you."

Oh wonderful. He hoped that message hadn't been spread around, especially after this afternoon. "Yes, ser," Alistair replied. "I'll head there right away."

"Good. And hurry back, we need the help putting the cows up for the night. Go on now." Mitchell waved his hand in the general direction of the castle, dismissing Alistair.

Andraste's burning pyre, why did Arl Eamon have to come calling today? Whenever a fight broke out, especially one that needed to be broken up by someone on watch, word of it spread through the younger castle folk like wildfire. He didn't even want to think about how a summon from on high would be woven into those tales. It would probably only reinforce the belief that Eamon was his father, for they would say that he was being scolded for throwing his weight around. But there was little Alistair could do about the rumor mill running amok, and the arl was waiting for him.

He trudged along the long walk down the bridge into the keep, through the courtyard, and to the double doors leading inside. These were all familiar things. But whenever Alistair was summoned into the castle proper with no explanation, the whole place took on a eerie feeling. Doors felt larger and more like they were set in place to bar him from entering. The statuary seemed to watch him, scowling as if he was intruding on their private conversations. It was all in his head of course, but that didn't make it any less real.

"Ah, Alistair, you finally make your grand entrance," said a friendly voice as Alistair entered the main hall. Seneschal Maurice Povich stood in the middle of the hall, dressed prim and proper as always, talking with the Captain of the Guard.

"Hello, Lord Povich, ser," Alistair replied. Maurice had always been kind to him, which was doubly shocking since the Orlesian man had come to Redcliffe along with Lady Isolde. His words did not sting the way they would have coming from someone else. "Mitchell said that Arl Eamon sent for me?"

"He is in his study," Maurice replied. "Best hurry along."

Alistair nodded and did just that. Passing through the doorway, he entered a large hallway flanked by suits of armor. At the far end of the room was the arl's study, the door left open as it often was. Arl Eamon sat at his desk, shuffling mounds of parchment and scowling in concentration. Cautiously, Alistair approached the doorway and rapped his knuckles on it. Arl Eamon looked up and smiled when he saw Alistair standing there. "Come in, Alistair. I've been expecting you."

Alistair did as he was told. He stood opposite the arl on the far side of his desk, shuffling nervously and staring at the floor.

"Come over here, boy. I have something for you." Eamon opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. Craning his neck as he rounded the desk's corner, Alistair's fear was replaced by curiosity. "Happy birthday, lad," Eamon said, handing the package to Alistair.

It was all Alistair could do to keep his jaw from dropping open. Days blended into months in the stables, and then months blended into seasons. Alistair knew his birthday was near the end of summer, but keeping track of individual days was something the Chantry did. Arls too, apparently. It was always a pleasant surprise when this day rolled around.

Alistair tore into the package, pulling the string out of the way while being careful not to drop whatever was inside. When the paper fell away, he held in his hand a figure carved from white and purple stone. It had a fearsome face curled into a snarl, and horns bigger than its head that were twisted and pointed. Its arms looked as if they'd be as big around as barrels, were they full size and not carved from stone, and it had a huge muscled chest to match.

"An ogre, or so the sculptor in Denerim told me," Eamon explained. "It's carved from amethyst quartz. There are tales that one was spotted south of here in the Kocari Wilds a couple years ago, and the sculptor said that he's been selling them left and right since then."

Alistair wasn't sure what to say. This was almost as brilliant as his old beloved golem doll. Not quite, of course, because his arms didn't move like the golem's did. And it's not a _doll_ , he thought, it was a golem _figurine_.

"Thank you, Arl Eamon," Alistair finally managed to say. He hugged it close to his chest and smiled, hopping in place as he gave up on containing his excitement. "It's _awesome_."

"I'm glad you like it, son," Eamon said with a grin.

The word "son" snapped Alistair back to reality. The grin fell from his face and he looked the arl in the eye.

"What is it, Alistair?" Eamon asked. "You seem... troubled."

"Am I really your son?" And there it was. Eamon's eyes betrayed his surprise at the sudden question. When he did not reply, Alistair's tongue decided it needed to fill the silence. "People talk, all the time, and they treat me different. Some say I'm your son, your... bastard... some say I'm just a stray orphan that you took in, Maker knows why. A few say... other things. Crazy things. About... the king. King Maric, I mean. But never to my face." He didn't like thinking about what those "other things" might or might not mean to him. Being the arl's bastard was one thing; he'd still have a good chance at being Just Alistair be that the case. If the hushed rumors were true, however...

"I... wasn't expecting to have to tell you so soon, honestly," Eamon admitted. "Your father did not wish for you to know, but I did get him to agree that you should know once you were grown."

"I'm ten now, if today's my birthday. That makes me almost a man grown, doesn't it?"

Eamon chuckled. "Not quite, Alistair. You have many years ahead of you before most would grant you that title."

Alistair sighed. "So you're not going to tell me." He didn't say it as a question.

"Perhaps it is time for the truth to be told after all," Eamon relented. "Come here, boy." Eamon picked Alistair up and set him in his lap across one knee. "You must understand, lad, that knowing the truth changes nothing. You are still a commoner, the son of a serving girl, and nothing more than that. If I hear one word about you using this information to bully people, or if you try to get others to treat you differently because of it, I will be very cross that my trust was betrayed."

"I…" Alistair swallowed. "I understand, ser." Was the news truly so dire? He'd lived with servant's chatter all his life, and most of it was harmless talk with very little truth behind it.

"Alistair..." Eamon said, his voice low and serious. "King Maric is indeed your father."

It was true. The crazy, impossible rumors. He wasn't the arl's son after all. He was...

"Doesn't that make me a prince?" The thought both thrilled and utterly terrified him.

"Not in the slightest," Eamon replied, firmly. Alistair's heart still sank, even through the surge of relief he felt. "Remember what I said, Alistair. You are a bastard, common born, and you have no place at court or in courtly affairs. And that most definitely includes declaring yourself a prince."

"I... yes, ser, I understand."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Eamon offered, not unkindly. "It can't be an easy thing for you to come to terms with."

"No, no, I'll... I'll be alright. You said it doesn't change anything, right? Then it doesn't change anything," Alistair said with a overemphasized nod. He hoped that if he acted as if he believed it, he would come to feel it as true in time.

"Good lad," Eamon said with a kind smile. "Now, take your ogre and run along. If you need to talk, don't hesitate to come find me. I should not need to remind you that it would not be prudent to speak of this to anyone."

"No, you don't," Alistair agreed. He turned and headed toward the door. stopping when he reached the threshold. "Arl Eamon, ser... thank you. For the figurine, and for telling me."

"You are most welcome for the doll, lad. As for the answer... you may not thank me for it later. But you're welcome none the less."

"Figurine."

"W-What?" Eamon looked at the boy, perplexed.

"It's a figurine. _Not_ a doll."

"As you wish, lad," Eamon said with a grin. "As you wish."

Alistair turned and left the study, running past a startled Lord Povich, out the main doors, and all the way back to the stables. The sun had just about set, and the purple of twilight had colored Redcliffe's walls. He carefully turned the corner into the stable, hoping to avoid Mitchell for just long enough to sneak into his corner of the loft. Clutching his ogre figurine under his arm, he carefully climbed the hayloft ladder and made his way to his normal sleeping place. He kept a small crate buried in the hay which contained his most prized possessions. His golem figurine, several round stones he had found on the lake shore, a rusty knife pilfered from the kitchens, and the other carved figurines that the arl had given him over the years. He carefully placed his new ogre into the crate, smiling. The arl may not be his father, but he had still treated him like his son. He pushed any thoughts of the King from his mind. Those were thoughts to be thought another day. Maybe he did know something of family and feeling home after all.

He heard movement below. "Alistair!" Mitchell bellowed. "I saw you sneak up there. Get down here now, there are still cows that need attending."

"Yes, ser," Alistair replied. He hurried back down the ladder and tried to return to the life he thought he knew.

.oOo.

  



	2. Chance

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Alistair ~

* * *

Quiet as a Chantry mouse was such a stupid saying. Alistair wrinkled his nose at the thought. The mice he saw in the stables back at Redcliffe squeaked all the time.

Maybe the Chantry bit was key. The mice that Alistair lived with were stable mice, not Chantry mice. The Maker must have mice take a vow of silence before allowing them to live in His house.

Regardless, he dared not ignore the instructions of Arl Urien's kennel master. He was to sit on the crates in the corner and be as quiet as a Chantry mouse, if he wished to be present when the mabari pups were born.

So there Alistair sat, curiosity as well as fear of the dog keeper's anger holding him in place. It was hard to keep quiet, so very hard, because this whole process made his stomach feel not-so-good a lot of the time. Fortunately, Braedan's attention was on the laboring mabari bitch in the birthing pen so Alistair's squirming went unnoticed. The sounds she made were at times enough to almost make him no longer care about staying quiet. After all, he could just come back when this whole messy process was over. But that would prove the kennel master right about him when he said Alistair didn't belong there, and By the Maker he wasn't going to let Braedan think that about him. Never mind that if Gareth back at Redcliffe heard about him causing problems in Arl Urien's kennels, he'd be punished for sure as soon as they returned. Arl Eamon's hound master was not a pleasant man to those he felt disrespected dogs, especially mabari.

The amulet Alistair wore around his neck had somehow made it into his hand, his thumb running over the familiar design on its face. When the connection between the amulet, his mother, and the mabari he was watching came to him, he quickly tucked the trinket back under his shirt. Those thoughts were far too uncomfortable to contemplate, and would surely upset him enough to have him thrown out of the kennels.

He watched, frozen between wonder and disgust, as the third pup was wetly deposited onto the straw in the pen. It never ceased to amaze him, the way that the mabari mother used the same mouth full of razor sharp teeth to tenderly clean and move around her tiny newborn puppies. That was his favorite part of the whole process, watching the baby mabari emerge from the mess and become something recognizable rather than a squirming lump of goo.

"Well, Braedan, all goes well I take it?" Alistair looked up toward the kennel doorway and saw none other than Arl Urien himself standing there. "Everything alright with my girl?"

"She's doing just fine, m'lord," Braedan responded, standing as he spoke to greet the arl. "Holdin' up like a champ, she is. Three pups so far, and I don't think she's done yet." Alistair shuddered. If the way she sounded earlier counted as good, he would hate to hear what bad sounded like.

"Excellent!"the arl exclaimed, smiling broadly. "I should have expected no less from my Gracie." He headed toward the birthing pen, but stopped short when he heard the mabari's throaty growl.

"Careful, your lordship," Braedan said. "She's gonna be a might touchy with the new pups around, even with you."

"Of course, I understand," Arl Urien agreed. He stepped backwards to stand in the door frame once again. "And I see you have company, Braedan. I hope the boy isn't disturbing you."

"What? Oh, right, the boy." Braedan looked at Alistair. Alistair smiled back at him, hoping they wouldn't see how nervous he was to have drawn their attention. "Almost forgot he was there, I did. He's been quiet as a Chantry mouse, just as he was told."

"Good lad. Now, Braedan," the arl said, his attention turning back to the kennel master. "You will let me know when the pups are all delivered, yes? Teyrn Cousland asked that I send word. His daughter wishes to see them."

"Of course I will my lord, but you will kindly remind her that she needs to be respectful-like. To disrespect a mabari with pups is to lose a hand, and that's on a good day."

"I will do just that. Please send word to me if anything changes with Grace's condition."

"Understood, my lord," Braedan said with a firm nod. With that, Arl Urien turned and left the kennels.

Oh great. Just great. Not _her_. Teyrn Cousland of Highever has been summoned to Denerim, just as Arl Eamon had, to serve at court while the king was off visiting Antiva. While he had only visited the Arl of Denerim's estate a couple times since his arrival, when Teyrn Cousland came to visit he always brought his insufferable daughter along with him. It was hard for Alistair to believe that she and he were of an age. Lady Elisara was perhaps a little younger, but it was close enough. She was a wild thing who dressed as a boy and loved to poke people with the wooden daggers she never seemed to go anywhere without. But she was still a noble's daughter, a fact that she rarely let anyone forget, so he was expected to be respectful. How someone as well regarded as Teyrn Cousland could proudly claim the girl as his daughter was something that Alistair simply could not understand. She would never survive a day living in the stables, of that Alistair was certain. It would take the amount of time it took to shovel one load of cow dung for her to learn that noble blood did you a fat lot of good there.

"You. Boy. Alistair." Braedan's voice snapped his attention back to the space outside his head.

"Yes, ser?"

"Come down here for a moment."

"But," Alistair replied, still nervous. "You said to stay out of the way. And you told the arl that not even he can approach his own bonded mabari."

"I did, but you've been so quiet that I clean forgot you were sitting up there. If you're still here and haven't been scared off by the blood and mess, maybe there was something to what Arl Eamon said about you." Braedan motioned with his hand, trying to encourage the lad. "Come on down, then. I want to see how Grace reacts to you."

Alistair swallowed, scared but also curious as to why this man would think him worthy when the mabari's own human was not. He climbed down carefully from the crates.

"Slowly now, lad. I'll let you know if you need to back away."

Nodding, Alistair slowly walked toward the pen, one foot slowly stepping in front of the other. Grace let out a pained whine, which stopped him in his tracks and turned Braedan's attention back to her. "It's alright lad, she's just getting ready to bear down on another pup."

Soon enough, Alistair found himself at Braedan's side, looking into the pen. She seemed so much larger up close, but some of that was due to her broad chest expanding with the huge breaths she was rapidly taking in and out. Grace whined again and turned her gaze to Alistair.

"It's alright Gracie, he's a friend," Braedan explained in a soothing tone. "He wants to see your pups as much as you do." The mabari lay her head back down on the hay, focusing back on the task at hand. "There's a good lass, a strong lass. See boy? You can almost see the head of the next pup."

Alistair was quite certain he was going to throw up right then and there, all over the poor wiggling pups. Wouldn't _that_ be a fine welcome to the world for the little mabari. _This is what being vomited on feels like. No, I can't promise things will get better given time._ The last thing Alistair wanted however was to be sent away, so he simply looked on and nodded. Not soon after, the pup seemed to gush out of its mother, ushered into the world on a flood of fluids. Grace tenderly saw to this pup as well, licking it clean and nosing it over to its litter-mates.

"I can't say for certain yet…" Braedan interjected, causing Alistair let out the breath he didn't even know he was holding. "Not until I get a closer look and make sure, but I think that one's a girl as well. Three girls and one boy. The arl will be most pleased."

"Do you think there will be any more pups?" Alistair asked, and as the words came out of his mouth he realized he wasn't sure which answer he hoped to be true.

"It's possible, I suppose, but mabari tend to have smaller litters than other dogs. Four's actually a good size, all things considered." The keeper examined the Mabari mother with his keen eye. "Gracie's young though, and younger bitches tend to have larger litters. All we can do is wait and see."

Alistair was quiet for a moment as he examined the pups. Two of them were the same cinnamon brown as their mother, one was grey, and the last one to be born was a deep black color, dark as wood burned down to coals.

"Braedan, which mabari is the pups' father?"

"Eh? Oh, she was bred with one of the finest dogs in the royal stables. Personal favor of the king for the arl, it was. They call him Nightrunner. Huge brute, black as night all over save for a little grey around his muzzle and toes. One of the few mabari I've seen that matches Grace's height and girth. One of these pups, the best one most like, will be taken to the palace once it's old enough to leave Gracie's care. This is a prize litter, lad, and don't you forget it."

Alistair nodded, suddenly regretting having asked the question. He didn't like to think about the palace. Or the king. Or the other pups who would be left behind when the pick of the litter went to live in said palace.

"Something wrong, boy?" Braedan asked, but before he could receive an answer Grace let out another pained whine. Alistair was forgotten as they both turned their attention back to the dog. Her breathing still labored along with her body, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. "By the Maker, she's still goin' at it. Atta girl, Gracie, you can do it!"

This pup did not come as fast as the other ones, however. Long minutes passed, and as more and more time went by Braedan became visibly worried.

"Alistair, lad, I'm going to need your help. You've muzzled dogs before, yes?"

Uh oh. "Well, yes, but never… like this, ser. I'm rather fond of my hands, attached as they are to my arms and all."

"Well, I bet if you could ask Gracie, she'd be rather fond of living. As would her stuck pup. I need your help, boy, and I need it now. Here." He handed Alistair a thick leather muzzle. "Careful, now. Climb into the pen, and make sure she sees you. Better she knows you're coming than to catch her by surprise, given her current state."

"Right. Okay. Sure." Alistair was very much not sure about this at all, but he knew better than to disobey a direct order. Slowly, one leg first and than the other, he climbed into the birthing pen. Grace growled at him, but she did not seem to have the strength to truly turn it into a threat.

"Hurry, lad. The sooner she's muzzled, the sooner I can help her."

Trying very, very hard not to think of his fingers as delicious sausages, he moved toward Grace. She still growled at him between panting breaths, but she did not stop him as he knelt down and slipped the muzzle around her giant head.

"Buckles are secure, ser," Alistair proclaimed when the job was done. Quickly he turned away from the mabari, looking to get out of the pen as quickly as possible.

"No, boy! Stay with her. If she let you do that much, she'll take comfort from you as well. Keep her calm, if you can. She's not gonna like what I have to do."

Don't think, Alistair chided himself, just do what he says. He returned to the mabari and sat down cross legged near her head. "It's alright, girl. Braedan's gonna help you, and your pup, and everything's gonna be okay, okay? Your pups are amazing, and I'm sure this one is too."

He kept talking to the mabari, repetitive soothing words, and he even braved scratching her pointed ear. He tried very hard to ignore Braedan, who's gloved hand was doing things he simply did not want to think about around poor Grace's nether regions. So he _didn't_ think about it, and focused on talking to the dog. "It's okay, it'll be over soon. Then we'll find you a nice big juicy bone, or maybe a steak! Yes, you'd like that. I know I would."

Grace squirmed and yipped, head lashing toward Braedan as she tried to pull away from the man. "Hold her down! Sit on her if you have to! And watch for the pups!"

Don't think, don't think, just do. And Alistair did.

Not long after, Braedan's gloved and gore-covered hand helped ease a tiny pink body into the world. He motioned Alistair out of the pen as he laid the small creature near Grace's head and removed her muzzle.

"Something's wrong," Alistair said as he watched the pup with its mother. Grace only halfheartedly cleaned him, and soon enough she nosed him to the side and turned her attention to the rest of her litter.

"After all that… it figures. Well, can't win 'em all, I suppose. Better Gracie lives and we lose one, rather than her dying and potentially losing them all." The kennel master shook his head, and went to retrieve the rejected puppy.

"What's wrong? What happened? Why didn't she put that pup with the rest of them?" Alistair asked.

"It happens sometimes, lad. Just the nature of beasts, I suppose. Sometimes, they just know that something's wrong with one of their children, and it's best to let them die rather than to be a burden on everyone. Harsh, but that's life for you."

"But… he looks fine to me! It's a he, yes?"

"Yes, it's a he. But it doesn't really matter now. Better we don't even mention the last one to the arl at all. No need for anyone else to know. I'll take him down to the river tonight."

"The…river? But… what good will that do?" Alistair was feeling sick all over again.

"A quick end in a sack of rubble is better one than starving to death."

"NO!" Alistair screamed. "I won't let you! I can't let you. That's just… just… not fair."

Braedan laughed a short, harsh laugh. "Life is supposed to be fair? I must have missed that decree."

"Can't someone take him? There has to be some way to feed him. Or maybe anothermabari? She can't be the only one in all of Denerim with pups right now."

"Alistair, please. No, no other mabari will take him. His mother was the only chance he had there. And I have much else to worry about. I can't devote my every waking moment, never mind un-awake moments since he'll need constant feeding, to one tiny pup that probably wouldn't even live to adulthood." He looked at Alistair and shook his head. "It's a tough lesson, lad, but one you'd best learn."

" _You_ may be too busy for him, but _I'm_ not! I'll feed him, just show me how. I don't care if I have to carry him everywhere I go, and feed him every hour, and clean up after him. He deserves a chance. It's not his fault his mother abandoned him, and his father lives in the palace and knows nothing of his existence!" Trying fiercely not to burst into tears, Alistair latched onto his anger and tried to shoot daggers with his eyes at Braedan.

"Silly boy, that's not how mabari work. They're not like humans. I doubt Nightrunner would even recognize his own pups."

Alistair still glared at him, turning away only when he felt himself losing control. Anger was acceptable, tears were not.

"But…" Braedan continued. "I suppose if you really want to, there's no harm in trying. Arl Eamon is staying in Denerim for the rest of the winter, yes? The pup will need at least two months of care, maybe more, before he'll be able to live on his own. The first month he'll need pretty much constant attention, just as his mother would have had to do. Just please, Alistair…" the man paused, eyes fixed on the tiny pup in his hands, "Make sure you're not granting him a lingering death. If he seems to be going downhill, we must do what's right."

"That's more of a chance that you're giving him now, so I'll take it. Give him to me."

The kennel master handed the puppy over to the boy. "You'll need goat's milk, and it's the Maker's own blessing that it's winter and we can easily get enough snow from outside to store it in and keep it cold. But you'll also need a way to heat up some of the milk as well, before you give it to him. You'll need clean rags which you can soak in the milk and use for him to suck from. And I suggest for now you keep him in a crate full of hay. He'll be blind and helpless until his eyes open, and not much less helpless once they do."

Alistair felt his anger fading. Using a corner of the rag the pup was wrapped in, he wiped the pup's face clean. He wasn't pink after all, that was just the birthing blood tainting the color of his fur. His fur was white, pure white. Even his muzzle, which traditionally was black or grey on purebred mabari, was white.

"We won't know for certain until he opens his eyes, of course," Braedan said, "But given that he's completely white all over, he may very well be what they call an albino. Probably why Gracie rejected 'im. They don't often grow up to be the healthiest of dogs. Somethin' queer about 'em on the inside, and it shows up on the outside as you see there, with no coloration."

"I don't care," Alistair proclaimed. "He's alive now, and I see no reason to give up on him." He paused. "Wait, what did you mean about his eyes?"

"A true albino, mabari or otherwise, has red eyes. No color at all in 'em, y'see, aside from the color of blood."

"Red eyes? Truly? Creepy." Alistair couldn't help feeling a bit emboldened by this fact. A Mabari saved from death couldn't help but bond to the person who saved him… right? No one would push him around or ignore him ever again if he had a giant ghostly red-eyed monster at his side who obeyed his every word.

"Better hurry and find those supplies, boy. He should already have his first meal in his belly by now."

"Yes, ser," Alistair said as he turned and ran for the kitchens.

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Elisara ~

* * *

 _Light as a feather, silent as a wraith._

Elisara had read that once, in one of the books she had "borrowed" from Aldous's library back at home. This book was about a thief known by many names, with a hundred tools in his belt and a thousand sovereigns in each of his coffers. He stole from traitorous Orlesian lords and ladies, and returned their ill gotten gains to the rightful nobles living in the woods, fighting to regain their lands and titles. Mother knew of some of the books she had found and devoured like a starving dog, but not all. She would have disapproved highly were she to know that Ellie had found and read _The Tawdry Adventures of the Black Wolf_. Maker, some of the things the Black Wolf did in that book with the Orlesian ladies… Elisara was _quite_ sure that Mother would deem the book "far too adult for a noble lady of your tender years." She could read rings around her age mates in the castle, but this was no surprise. They were just servants or knight's sons or _elves_ , after all. Mother probably didn't even realize she could make sense of the words in that book at all.

The Black Wolf's phrase had quickly become her unofficial chant, repeated to herself whenever she was trying to sneak around unnoticed. Since Arl Urien's guards were not used to her sneaking ways, it was even easier to avoid them and slip out of her room in the dark of night. The snows and the cold had been particularly wicked this evening, and Father had deemed it wise for them to spend the night here rather than returning to their estate.

Elisara wandered the hallways, heading in a roundabout fashion toward the steps that lead downstairs into the main part of the manor. Father had deemed earlier today that she was too young to have a mabari, but Ellie knew that even Father would have no choice but to let her have one where it to bond to her. It would be cruel to the both of them not to, and besides, the mabari would be useless to anyone else. They would _have_ to let her take it home with them, simple as that.

Earlier that day, she had been allowed to visit the mother mabari and her pups, and they were simply the cutest things she had ever seen. Well, the cutest things she'd ever seen since the last time Father's breeding pair of mabari had pups, anyway. She simply had not been allowed enough time with them, and that just would not do. How was she supposed to bond with a mabari pup if she was never allowed near any? No, this would not do at all. So Elisara had, as she often did, taken matters into her own hands.

Soon enough, she found the stairs she was looking for. She silently slid down them once the guard patrolling the hallway had moved on. The main floor would be more guarded than the upper living quarters, so Elisara knew she would need to be even more careful from here on out.

 _Light as a feather, silent as a wraith. You're so close, be on your guard._

She smelled the kennels before she saw them; fresh hay mixed with the unmistakable musk of mabari. As she turned the corner she was shocked to see light escaping from the kennel door. Didn't mabari ever sleep? They had to… didn't they? Well, she had already come this far, she wasn't turning back without finding an answer to this mystery.

Inching slowly toward the kennels, she peeked carefully around the cracked open door. She saw nothing save a large cage which housed a tan mabari. It was snoring quietly, clearly unbothered by the flickering candlelight. He was also clearly not the mother mabari and pups she had come to see.

 _Light as a feather, silent as a wraith_. Elisara pushed on the heavy door, hoping to slowly open it just wide enough for her to slip through into the room. Slowly… slowly… like a wolf in the night among the sheep…

The door betrayed her with a loud _creeeeeeak_. Of course. The servants here must be as lazy as half the servants in Highever, letting the door hinges fall into such a state of neglect. The Black Wolf wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake, she scolded herself. Then again, the Black Wolf always seemed to have a vial of oil handy whenever he went burgling.

"Who's there?" a voice called from within the kennel. Elisara let out her held breath, for it was clearly a child's voice and not an adult one. Maybe she wasn't caught quite yet. Bravely she stepped into the room.

"You question the actions of your princess? You are brave, for a dog-boy." She put on what she hoped was her best noble-and-full-of-seriousness face.

The boy narrowed his eyes at her. "You're no princess. We don't got no princesses right now, not in Ferelden anyway."

"Oh? And what of my friend Lady Anora? She is betrothed to Prince Cailan himself. Does that not make her a princess?"

"No more than it makes me a prince," the boy spat in response. He looked positively angry now.

She scoffed. "Don't be absurd, Dog-Boy."

He stood and approached her. "What do you want? I highly doubt your father would approve of you sneaking around in the middle of the night. Shouldn't you be back in the palace or your father's estate or, well, somewhere other than here?"

"I will go where I like, when I like, and I will _not_ be questioned by dog-boys!" Elisara wanted to say more, but more shouting would only draw attention. "Now," she continued, "Where are the pups? I would like to see them." Mother did always say it was more effective to get what you wanted from people if you asked politely and spoke clearly. It was just so _hard_ to do when dealing with willful servants like Dog-Boy.

Dog-Boy sighed. "They're over there, in the birthing pen. Just don't come crying to me if Gracie decides that your delicate princessy hands look like tasty meat snacks." With that, he returned to where he had been sitting, next to an open crate full of straw and a small bucket.

Elisara hurried over to the pen and peered inside. The mother mabari was just as huge as she had been this morning. She reminded Ellie more of one of her father's Orlesian horses than of a dog. She had never seen a mabari so huge, not in her entire life, and nine years was a very long time. Her pups, though only a week old, were larger than Spitfire and Miranda's pups grew to be at about a month old. Two slept in a pile, one grey and one brown, while the black one tried to maneuver using its tiny legs and failing miserably yet oh-so-adorably. Another brown pup sucked at one of its mother's teats.

Oh Holy Andraste, if Ellie could become bonded to a mabari as big as the pup's mother, no one would ever not listen to her or ignore her wants ever again. She knew that she simply _must_ have one of these pups. She _needed_ one, the same way she needed to breathe and eat.

"They can't bond to you yet, you know," Dog-Boy said, intruding unwelcome on her happy thoughts.

"Oh really? Just because you're a dog-boy, Dog-Boy, that doesn't make you the expert here. I've read plenty about mabari, and not just puppies either."

"Braedan says they can't bond with anyone until at least their eyes are open. Even that's not for certain. You can't force a mabari to imprint on you, no matter how hard you try." He sounded sad about this, for all that he was being a smarty pants know-it-all dog-boy.

"Mabari choose the purest of soul, the noblest of heart, and the kindest of deed to bond with. What chance would a dog-boy like you have?"

"More than you, _my lady_." He said the last words like he was spitting sour grapes. "You charge in here in the middle of the night, hoping beyond hope to be chosen by one of the pups, because your high and mighty father said you can't have one. Princess or no, the mabari don't care. They see you for you who truly are."

"And just who," Elisara said, lowering her voice dangerously, "do you think I truly am?"

"A spoiled brat noble's daughter who thinks she deserves everything she gets in life and then some."

Even though she heard her father, her mother, and Old Nan screaming at her in her head, her body leapt up as if she were a puppet on a string. Just as quickly, her palm struck Dog-Boy's face.

"And you are a rude dog-boy who deserves a good thrashing!"

She could see him quivering in anger. He wanted to strike her back so, so badly. But if he did, he truly would be thrashed, or worse. Elisara grinned wickedly. "Shall we speak civilly now, Dog-Boy?"

"As _my lady_ commands," Dog-Boy replied, struggling to contain himself and staring at the floor.

"Oh good. Remember, if you tell anyone that I hit you, anyone at all, I will make sure they know how you hit me first and called me names and assaulted my honor as a noble woman." She wasn't quite sure what the last bit meant, but she'd read it in a book and it sounded impressive. Impressive enough to silence a mere dog-boy anyway.

"As _my lady_ commands," he repeated.

It was then that she heard the puppy-like noises coming from the nearby crate. Had Dog-Boy stolen one of the pups and hidden it away from the kennel master? He was more bold than she dreamed be that the case.

"Is there another puppy in that box? Where did it come from?"

"You stay away from him!" Dog-Boy screamed. "He's sick, and Grace abandoned him, and he's mine to care for, Braedan said so! For now he is anyway, until he's big enough to feed himself."

Her curiosity overcame her. "Can I see him? I won't touch him, I just want to look."

"Well…" Dog-Boy considered. "As my lady commands, I suppose. It's probably time to feed him again anyway."

"How do you feed a puppy without a mother for it to suckle from?"

"They didn't cover that in your books? Huh. Well, here, I can show you, but you have to listen and not slap me or yell at me anymore."

"Of course. What do you do?" Elisara smiled her friendliest smile at him, and received a scowl in return.

"Here. See this?" He showed her the bucket on the floor next to him. It contained a metal jug surrounded by packed snow. "It's goat's milk. Not as good as what Gracie could have given him, but better than cow's or sheep's milk, or so Braedan says."

He looked at her warily before continuing. "Anyway, here's what you do. First, pour some of the cold milk into this cup, here. Then, you heat it over the candle until it's warm but not hot." He did as he described.

"When the milk is warm, take the rag and roll it around until it kind of resembles a dog's teat. Then, you soak it in the goat's milk, like this," he said, showing her as he spoke. "From there, you take it and hold it near the pup's mouth. He's gotten much better at this over the past week."

Elisara watched Dog-Boy as he lowered the rag into the crate. He held the pointed bit close to the pup's nose, and sure enough the pup began sucking the milk out of the rag. "You have to re-soak it a lot, it doesn't hold very much at all," Dog-Boy explained.

"Can… may I try? Just once?"

Dog-Boy hesitated, but then he must have realized how nicely she asked rather than commanding him. "Just be careful, okay?" He handed her the rag and moved to the other side of the crate, watching her but not trying to stop her either.

She fumbled with the twisted shape, which quickly twisted apart as soon as she dipped it in the cup of milk. Trying again, the second time it seemed to stay more in a nipple-like shape. Sort of. Not to be outdone by Dog-Boy, she decided this was good enough and moved the rag into the dog's crate. He sniffed at the rag, and it took him several moments to realize this was indeed his food source. Clamping around the rag-teat, he began to suck.

"Maker, he pulls! I wasn't expecting that."

"I didn't either, at first. I guess I'm just used to it by now." He yawned, a huge yawn which seemed to possess his whole body.

"Does he always eat in the middle of the night like this?" Elisara asked.

"Several times a night. I'm lucky if I get more than an hour or two of sleep when I lie down. You're going to want to soak it again, he's pretty much drained it dry already."

"So, is this what dog-boys do then? Feed pups who are cast out by their mothers?"

"Hardly. Braedan was going to drown him in the river. I had to convince him I could care for him properly," Dog-Boy said, yawning yet again. "It hasn't been easy. I'm starting to understand why Braedan was going to kill him. I couldn't do this and take care of much else, and he has all of Arl Urien's dogs to think of, not just one stunted little albino."

"Albino?"

"They didn't cover that in your books either?"

"Enough out of you about the books. What's an albino?"

"Braedan says it means that something's wrong with him, on the inside. It shows on the outside as having no color, save whatever comes through from the color of his blood. He also says when his eyes open they'll be red. From the blood."

"Interesting. Thank you for the answer, Dog-Boy."

Dog-Boy watched her for a moment. She soon caught him grinning an odd one-sided grin. "You're much nicer when you're nose isn't so high in the air. And my name is Alistair, not Dog-Boy."

"And you are much nicer when you remember your place around a teyrn's daughter, Alistair." She handed him the dog's rag back to him. "Does he have a name?"

"I've been calling him Chance, but I suppose Arl Urien or Braedan will probably give him an official name. But for now, his name is Chance."

"A suitable name. I hope his luck stays fair."

"As do I, my lady."

"My name is Elisara. Lady Elisara."

"Oh, I know. But one smack in the face from a girl is enough for one night, I think. 'My lady' is a far safer choice," Alistair said with a smirk.

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Maric ~

* * *

The winds blew the heavy late winter rain through the door as it was opened, soaking the entrance way. Arl Urien's guards ushered him in along with his own small retinue of attendants.

"Your Majesty, you know you are always welcome here, but I must ask that you excuse the condition of the estate," Arl Urien said as he bowed slightly and saluted his king. "We had only just learned of your return to Denerim, and it was but an hour ago when your messenger arrived announcing you were on your way."

"Urien, I've been on a ship for the last month, either crammed in the supposed largest cabin or being pelted by wintery rain," replied King Maric with a grin. "Warm, dry, and spacious is more than enough hospitality to get my eternal thanks."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Urien replied.

"Did something change while I was in Antiva, Urien? You can still call me just Maric, you know."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Of course." Urien said with an indulgent grin.

Maric rolled his eyes. "I just can't win with you, can I? At least Eamon has the sense to drop formality when the chance is offered him."

"You are his brother-by-marriage, Your Majesty. His rights are not the same as mine."

"Where is Eamon anyway?" Maric asked. "I'm surprised he's not here with you, chiding me for not returning to Denerim quickly enough. As if I had a choice in the matter."

"He is in my study, awaiting your arrival and I believe composing a letter to his lady wife. If you would follow me, my king?" Urien gestured toward the hallway behind him, and his guards took the lead. "I wish we could have all met under better circumstances, Your Majesty. Ones that coincided with daylight hours, to start."

"I know Urien, and I do apologize for that, all kidding aside. The winds were not with us on our return journey, and it took far longer than I would have liked. This way I can still converse with Eamon and not disrupt his plans to leave in the morning. I know he is in a hurry to return to Isolde. When is their child due again?"

"If the midwives are to be believed, in about a month, give or take." Urien explained.

"All the more reason for us to meet and send him on his way. Ah, and here he is, the reluctant father-to-be!" Maric proclaimed as he entered Urien's study. Arl Eamon was sitting at Urien's desk, shuffling parchment and ink.

"Welcome home, Your Majesty," Eamon said solemnly. "I wish we had the convenience of more time to speak."

"Eamon, please. It's Maric. Just Maric." He could feel Urien's smug grin without even looking at the man.

"Fine, fine, Maric. Please, Maric, we have much to discuss."

The two lords and their king sat in the study in front of the fire discussing many varied topics. Everything from trade to taxes on Orlesian imports to the king's recent state visit to Antiva. It was only toward the end of their conversation, late into the night, when the topic turned to what Maric had come here to truly discuss and yet avoid the entire evening.

"He turned ten this past summer, as I'm sure you're well aware. We must decide what the boy's future will be. It is not such a simple thing to keep him hidden as he grows, both in age and in knowledge," Eamon said.

"Blast it all, Eamon, why did you have to tell the boy? About me, I mean? I thought we'd agreed he was better off not knowing." Maric rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "That's all he knows, right? He knows nothing of his mother?"

"No. He believes the story that we've used all these years, that the serving girl who claimed to be carrying your child was his mother." Eamon replied.

"Well thank the Maker for small mercies then. I never fully understood why she asked that of me, but at least her wishes have been respected," the king stated, finishing off the last bit of brandy from his glass. "But you didn't answer my question. Why did you tell him?"

Eamon cleared his throat before continuing. "He's a bright lad, and he has been subjected to servant's gossip by nature of his upbringing. He asked to know the truth, and it felt dishonest not to tell him."

"I… suppose I understand," Maric agreed begrudgingly. "Still, that can't have made things easier for the boy."

"The truth is rarely something easy to face, Maric," Eamon answered. "He was warned not to speak of it to anyone, and from what I'm able to gather he's done so. But the problem of what to do with the boy is still an issue. Even if he didn't know who he was, he's still rapidly growing into a young man."

"If I may?" Urien interjected. "I believe the most prudent route here would be to turn the boy over to the Chantry. Have him sworn to celibacy and trained as a Templar. It gives him a purpose, a calling to pursue, and if all goes well it keeps him from muddying the waters of Cailan's succession. At worst, it gives us plausible deniability were he ever to conceive a son. It would be easy for the woman's claim to be brushed off as implausible, and if it was a mage, Maker forbid, the Chantry would lay claim on the child anyway. Nice and neat, I think."

Eamon looked at Urien, and Maric looked at Eamon. Eamon spoke first. "Alistair would make a horrible Templar, Urien. I don't doubt his devotion to duty and sense of right and wrong, but he's… a bit of a troublemaker. No offense intended, Your Majesty."

"I can hardly be offended, given how little influence I've been able to have on the boy," Maric replied. All was quiet for several moments. "Urien's idea has merit however. There is no ideal solution to this situation, and there's a lot that makes sense in what he says."

"Then I shall speak with the Revered Mother and Knight-Commander when I return to Redcliffe," Eamon agreed with a firm nod. "Though you'll forgive me if I don't do send the boy to them right away. I have a feeling Isolde and our child will be holding most of my attention for some time. Plus, the boy is still young. There is no rush or pressing need to send him off."

"He's your ward, Eamon. Send him to the Chantry whenever you deem it best," Maric hated this feeling, where doing what was best and what was right still felt so inherently _wrong_.

"Where is the boy?" Maric asked.

"Probably asleep in the kennels," Urien replied. "Maker's Breath, I almost forgot to tell you. Remember that litter of mabari pups you had sired on my Gracie? She had five pups, Your Majesty, five! Though only four were healthy. Huge brutes they are! I swear, every time the kennel master comes to me for more feed allowance, I think they're going to eat me out of house and home."

"That's wonderful news, Urien," Maric said, a smile returning to his face. "Shame about the fifth pup, but these things happen."

"Ah, but you didn't let me finish. Alistair was there when the pups were born, and he flat-out refused to let Braedan drown the sickly pup. In all honesty he's kind of a frightening little beast, completely white with blood-red eyes. An al-bye-no, I think is what Braedan called him. Anyway. Alistair took him in, and has been his nursemaid since the day he was born. He's nowhere near the size of the other pups, but that's not saying much given how large Nightrunner and Gracie are. He's been at it the entire winter, never leaving the pup's side, always making sure it was warm and fed. And, much to the kennel master's surprise, the pup lived. Thrived, even! It was rather an amazing feat, Your Majesty."

"Indeed…" Maric sank back into his chair, absorbing the story Urien had just shared. "He didn't bond with the pup, did he? I'm not sure it would be right to send him to the Chantry, if he would have to give up such a bond."

Urien shook his head. "I don't think they have, from what I've been told anyway. If the boy is hiding it, he's doing a damned good job at it. I think, if anything, the pup sees him as his mother. Some part of me has hoped all along that this would impede the imprinting process. Or, maybe he's just flat out different, and doesn't bond with humans in the way that normal mabari do. He is something of an exception to every rule, you know."

"Sounds like Alistair has rubbed off on him more than I like to think about," Maric quipped. "Does this pup have a name?"

"He calls him Chance, Your Majesty."

"How fitting." Maric carefully weighed his next words. "He must be asleep at this hour, yes? I… would like to go see him. But only if he's truly asleep. No need to give the boy a false sense of hope." He could feel the pride he felt over Alistair's accomplishment turning to ash in his mouth with those words.

"Of course, Your Majesty. I will send one of my guards to check on him."

Maric stepped cautiously into the room. _My poor, forgotten son. Or so you must believe. I'm so sorry, for all of this._ The sounds of sleeping dogs surrounded him, quiet short snores and hints of whimpers and barking as they chased dream rabbits. In the far corner he found what he was looking for, a young boy, for he really could no longer call him small, lying on a pile of straw and cuddled around an unnaturally white beast. His reddish blonde hair was shaggily cut, as it had been every time he'd had these brief glimpses of the boy. He supposed the Templars would see to that, in time.

Kneeling, he quietly examined at the boy. He tried to commit every detail to memory, since he did not know when he may get another chance to see him. These unofficial glances into his illegitimate son's life would be all but impossible once Alistair was living in a monastery. Maybe he would end up stationed in Denerim, Maric thought briefly. A wistful hope, that. There was little chance that Eamon would not tell the Revered Mother who his father was. The Templars would probably lock him up in the Circle Tower and keep him under as firm of a watch as they did the mages.

Was this what Fiona would have wanted? This Templar plan was hardly one which allowed him to live free to follow his own destiny. _My blood will haunt him in ways yours never could, my dear. No one knows who you are, but everyone knows who I am._

"I'm sorry, Alistair. I am so, so sorry. I wish… I wish you could be my son in reality, not just in cold, hard truth."

Carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping boy or his dog, Maric leaned over and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He quickly left the kennels after that, not trusting himself to be able to hold back his overwhelming desire to ignore his duty and bring the boy home with him.

On his way out of Urien's estate, Maric pulled the arl aside. "You will send the mabari to me. I will at least see the pup my boy saved raised properly. It is the absolute last thing I can do for him, but it is all I've been granted."

"As you say, Your Majesty. As you say."

.oOo.


	3. Rusty Cage

  


  


  


.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Alistair ~

* * *

Alistair was angry. He was angry at the stable master, the arlessa, and the entire world. He would show her, he would. He was _done_ taking care of her stupid Orlesian beast, the brushing, the pampering, and most definitely his giant piles of dung.

Mitchell the stable master was busy hitching a pair of oxen to a wagon-load of supplies. He had barked his orders to Alistair a short while ago. He was to brush and saddle the arlessa's horse. Lady Isolde wished to go riding this afternoon, he claimed, the first time since the arl's son was born that she's felt well enough to do so, and by the Maker, her horse had best look like it was fit to be the mount of Andraste herself!

Alistair sulked and fumed to himself. He distinctly remembered being taught that Andraste was a commoner from Ferelden. If that was true, she would have **never** ridden a horse. She hadn't been a chevalier either, so she would have had no business riding horses.

As he watched the stable master, Alistair imagined himself as a noble thief imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, sneaking out of the evil king's prison. He inched around the corner of the stable door, and when he was sure he wasn't being noticed he broke into a run.

He ran across the wide stone bridge into Redcliffe Castle. The guards stationed there gave him no notice, for he was often sent to deliver messages around the grounds. While he hated being asked to play messenger boy, one benefit of the job was that he was generally ignored by the rest of the castle staff if he appeared to be heading somewhere with a purpose. If they questioned where he was going at the moment, no one questioned it for very long. The arl's own mabari were kenneled through the hallways he was entering, so it would be easy to think that stable master sent him to find the kennel master.

Alistair ran through the halls, getting turned around once or twice but finally finding what he was looking for. Redcliffe's dungeon was rarely put to its intended use, so the nearby passageways were oddly silent. Nearly everywhere else in the castle or on its grounds, there was always some kind of noise; servants chattering, pots and pans clanging, weapons clashing, cows mooing. No one came to the prisoner cells with any kind of regularity. This was good. No, it was _perfect_. Were anyone to find him here, they would have to search really, _really_ hard.

The first cell on the right seemed as good as any, in particular because its door was slightly ajar. As it turned out, the door was far heavier than he imagined just by looking at it. It was made of black iron, with rusted hinges that painfully broke the silence as he yanked on the door to dislodge it. After the rust coating was broken the door moved more easily, but Alistair still had to pull with all his might to get the door to open wide enough for him to slip inside. It was far easier to move the door back to its original position. It slammed shut with a resounding _clang_ that seemed to echo throughout the lower floors. The silence however won out again quickly enough.

At first, Alistair strained his ear against the quiet, fearing that they would find him far too easily. But as time passed he relaxed, feeling smug that his hiding place had been a success. He pushed against the cell door, and just as he had hoped it had indeed locked behind him. Now that he had truly trapped himself here, where he could not scurry back to the stables if he got scared. Or, as was more likely to happen, run to the kitchens if he got hungry and risk discovery. Nope, the only way now that he would be found would be if someone came to him.

His thoughts wandered back to the wrongfully imprisoned thief, his imagination painting pictures of a dashing man who was always on the run, hiding in the woods by day while robbing the local nobles blind at night. He was smart, funny, good with a sword and bow, and always knew more than those of noble birth about how the world _really_ worked. But now, they had caught him. Or maybe he had gotten greedy, going after a tempting treasure and falling into the lord's trap. Or maybe someone he trusted had ratted him out. Yes, that was it. Another thief, a supposed friend, had turned him in for a huge reward. And now he found himself in the dungeon, awaiting the lord's judgment.

After a couple hours, he started to feel hungry. Alistair the Thief would have been fed, perhaps only bread and water, but something! Maybe even some hard cheese. He sighed. They would find him soon enough. It had to be afternoon by now. The arlessa would be furious to have her pleasure ride delayed, the stable master only slightly less so over the embarrassment of making her wait.

"They think they own me," Alistair muttered to himself. "That they can push me around like I'm some kind of servant." If he were a true prince, _they_ would be _his_ servants. Alistair wondered how they would like that, having to jump to attention at his every word. He could make the arlessa polish his royal armor. And then, he could take her horse, claiming that it was needed by his royal father, the king, to fight in his battles and win his wars.

He angrily rubbed his eyes at the thought, wiping away that awful burning sensation before it grew into something more. His foot lashed out as if it was out of his control, and kicked over a bucket long since left and forgotten here in his cell. It clattered across the floor, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding crash. Eventually he slid down into a sitting position, leaning against the wall with his knees held in close to his body. Even more time had passed, but without being able to see the sun he had no idea just how much. It felt like hours and hours, but that could just be his stomach talking.

He listened yet again, and still he heard nothing. Reassured that the dungeons were still empty of anyone besides him, he reached down into his tunic and pulled out the amulet he always wore. It wasn't something he did often anymore, not since the older stable boys started mocking him for wearing a necklace.

" _My father told me that King Maric got him on some serving wench! Funny, you'd think he'd believe himself a prince, not a princess! May I get milady anything? A frilly dress? Fancy ribbons for your hair? What about a pair of pretty shoes?"_

It had been the shoe comment that did it. It made him think of the arlessa and her wardrobe full of ornate Orlesian shoes, which he had been tasked with organizing once. It earned the boy, the son of a minor bann visiting Redcliffe this past spring, a punch to the face and a broken nose. Alistair was banished to the kitchens for a month, made to scrub pots and clean butchered chickens.

He rubbed his thumb over the pendant, something he often found himself doing that when was upset over something. Originally the amulet had been decorated with the symbol of Andraste's holy flame, but over the years the soft pewter had slowly worn down and the symbol was getting harder and harder to recognize.

 _She_ would have come looking for him. She would have scolded him for running off, but then they would have gone to the kitchens and had a warm dinner. Lamb and pea stew perhaps, or maybe some leftover roast from the arl's table sent back to the kitchens.

His vision started blurring again. Alistair angrily scolded himself for crying. It was summer now, and he would be eleven before the season turned again. Almost a man grown, regardless of what Arl Eamon may believe. Grown men don't simper about their dead mothers.

Alistair's attention was snapped back to reality when he heard the deep throaty barking of mabari disrupting the quiet. Had they come looking for him at last? And they were using the mabari to track him! They must have been truly worried over him going missing.

Several minutes passed, but instead of the noises getting louder they grew quiet. The hallways were no longer silent, for the mabari would bark once in awhile and he could hear the muffed voices of guards. But things had clearly settled down to a state of calm.

It was then that the truth hit him. All he had overheard was the nightly bedding down of the arl's prize mabari. They hadn't been looking for him at all. They were just going about their business like it was any other night. And it was indeed nighttime by now, if the mabari were being kenneled for the evening.

"If I were a true prince I'd have them all _hanged,_ " Alistair spat. By the Maker, if one of those precious hounds went missing the entire castle would be routed and made to help search for them.

Shoving a few bits of loose rubble out of the way, he curled up on the dirty floor. Maybe if he slept for awhile, he would feel better when he woke. It felt odd to miss his normal corner of the stables, but straw was indeed far more comfortable than flagstones. Some part of him hoped that being missing from his normal sleeping place would cause someone, anyone, to come looking for him in the morning.

He woke several hours later, again to the sound of barking mabari. It was dark, darker than before he nodded off, for most of the torches in the hallway outside the cell block had burned out overnight. The silence that was left in the wake of the mabari's leaving was unnerving, and the dark didn't help to improve things. It was then that Alistair suddenly realized just why there was a bucket in his cell. It made yesterday's imaginary romp as Alistair the Noble Thief lose a fair bit of its shine, for there was no garderobe for the bucket to be emptied into.

A short while later he began to hear the sounds of shuffling from the hallway, and something that sounded like his name being called out. He listened long enough to be sure he wasn't imagining what he heard. When he was certain, he headed to the very back of the cell, where the ceiling sloped down the floor forming a rough semi-circle. The whole area was dark and damp with mud, for the condition of the outer cell wall had deteriorated greatly thanks to a slow steady drip that clung wetly to the stone bricks. A particularly wicked thought ran through Alistair's mind. He began taking handfuls of mud from the floor and wall, which he then smeared all over himself. His arms, his legs, his face and hair, even his clothes he plastered with mud. Even if whoever was looking for him actually managed to find him here, hiding in the dark covered in black mud, they would at least need to clean him up before sending him to his punishment.

Someone was coming. Alistair could hear their footsteps, but they did not sound hurried. Nor was this person calling his name. He did notice that the dim light filtering into his cell was getting slightly brighter. Someone was lighting the torches in the hallway outside the main door.

"Bann Teagan!" a voice, probably the lamplighter's, called out suddenly. "The door to the dungeons is open!" Alistair heard a hiss escape his lips, and he pressed himself even more against the back wall.

"Do you see the boy in there?" Holy Maker, it really _was_ the arl's brother looking for him. He hadn't known before that moment that Bann Teagan was even at Redcliffe, he must have arrived yesterday while he was down here. He knew he was in for it now, if the arl had sent his brother to find him.

A head popped through the door, and took a quick glance about. "Not that I can see, milord, but a dungeon is a great place to hide in the shadows. 'Ere, take one of my torches." Alistair squeezed his eyes shut when he saw Teagan's familiar form come across the prison threshold. Some small noise must have escaped him, and he heard Teagan gasp.

"Alistair? Is that you hiding back there? Maker's Breath, what's happened to you?" Alistair sighed. He had been found. That was what he had wanted all along… right?

"Yes, Bann Teagan, it's me." He walked up to the front of his cell, suddenly ashamed by what he had done.

"Locked in a cell and covered in mud. Was this some kind of prank, lad?" Teagan asked as he reached over to grab the giant key ring hanging nearby on the wall.

"No, ser, it wasn't. I thought it would help keep me in the dark. Y'know, like a sneak thief hiding in the woods, covered in sticks and brambles. Except, I only had mud." That sounded so much better than his original thoughts on the matter, of that Alistair was sure.

Teagan turned the large iron key in the cell's lock and forced open the door. "Come, Alistair. We'll have to get you cleaned up quickly. The arl is waiting and I can't present you to him looking like this."

The arl. Andraste's flaming sword, he was in for it now, he was sure of it.

After a quick bath, hastily provided by several buckets of freezing cold water from the well, Teagan lead a sopping wet and shivering Alistair up the main stairs into Redcliffe Castle. As they climbed, Alistair's stomach growled so loudly that Teagan turned around to look at him.

"How long were you locked in that cell anyway?"

"…since yesterday morning." Alistair watched his feet carefully, making sure they didn't trip over any of the steps.

"We'll have to make sure we get a hot meal in you before… well, I'll make sure it happens, anyway." And with that, Teagan pushed open the heavy wooden doors and ushered the damp boy inside.

Arl Eamon was waiting for them, standing on the main hall's dais in front of the roaring hearth. Alistair recognized the woman standing next to him, though it was certainly odd to see the Revered Mother outside of the Chantry. At the arl's opposite hand stood a Templar, dressed in traditional white armor and embroidered maroon robes.

"Ahh, Teagan, you found him. Was there a problem?" Arl Eamon regarded Alistair, clearly curious about why he looked like he'd just been dredged out of Lake Calenhad.

"He is dripping on the carpets! Teagan, why did you bring him inside like… well, like this?"

Alistair hadn't seen _her_ standing there off to the side. Hearing her voice, full of anger and shaped by that accent which made her even uglier in his eyes, Alistair's anger flared.

"Teagan got me all wet like this, Lady Isolde. It _wasn't_ my fault!" He figured he was on his way to being severely punished anyway, it really didn't matter anymore if he also got in trouble for sassing the arl's wife.

"Enough, Alistair," Eamon said, his tone brooking no argument. "Isolde, why don't you go check on Conner? I can handle our business with the Chantry."

She stiffened, but did not argue. "Just see that it is done, Eamon. This should have happened years ago." She glared at Alistair as she headed out of the room. "Good riddance!" She closed the door forcefully behind her.

"Alistair, lad, come here," Eamon said as he got down on one knee and tried to catch Alistair's gaze. His former harsh tone was gone from his voice, but that scared Alistair even more. He approached the dais, swallowed, and waited.

"You know Revered Mother Hannah, yes? From the Chantry down in the village?"

Alistair nodded. "Your Reverence."

"You do have some manners, it seems…" Mother Hannah said, her face relaxing into a slight grin. "Yes, Eamon, now that I see him up close, I can see the resemblance you spoke of."

"Indeed," Eamon agreed. "I never had cause to suspect Maric's words on the matter."

Maric _._ Alistair's stomach tied into knots. King Maric. His... why were they bringing him up? Had he sent for him? Did his father want to _see_ him?

"Alistair, listen to me," Eamon continued. "I know this will be hard for you to understand. But I need to send you with Mother Hannah and Knight-Commander Harrith. They have agreed to allow you to join the Chantry, to be trained and eventually sworn to them as a Templar."

It felt like the room was spinning, as if someone had hit Alistair over the head with a blunt object. "A… a Templar? But… why?" His stomach felt like it had fallen down to the area around his knees. "Why would they want me?"

"It is not a matter of want, Alistair. It is your duty as well as your father's wish that you remain out of courtly affairs. The Chantry can provide you an education as well as a life of devotion and service once you are a man grown. So it has been decided. If you have anything you want to bring with you, I suggest you go retrieve it."

He should have known that it was too much to hope that the king had changed his mind about him. And yet, he had hoped it nonetheless. Stupid, stupid Alistair.

"But… Arl Eamon… ser… Why can't I just stay here? I don't care about royal stuff. And I promise not to run away anymore, not ever. I'll stay in the stable, and muck the stalls, and brush Lady Isolde's horse, and do whatever is asked of me. I'll be good, I swear, I'll be the best nobody ever. Please." He bowed his head, both to show the arl how sorry he was as well as to hide the tears that yet again he was unable to hold in. He was simply too overwhelmed to truly care much about them.

"Alistair, please. This has nothing to do with your behavior. It will go easier for all, including yourself, if you don't make a fuss over this." Eamon bent down, and lifted Alistair's chin with his hand. "I'm sorry, son. But what must be, must be."

" _I AM NOT YOUR SON!"_ Alistair screamed, wrenching his face away from the arl's touch. He bolted for the side door, but as fast as he was Teagan was faster. He grabbed the hysterical boy and held him until the worst of his flailing subsided. "Alistair, lad," Teagan said quietly. "My brother is only trying to do what's best. Come now, and let's go get your things from the stables."

Alistair sniffled as he tried to regain control of himself. He was shaking with the effort. Looking up at Teagan, a man who had always been friendly and thoughtful of him during his frequent visits to his brother's arling, his sadness was suddenly replaced with rage.

"Fine. It's clear that _no one_ wants me here any longer, not just the arl's bitch of a wife." Alistair glared at Teagan, daring the man to react to his stinging words.

"Another reason it's best to get you out of the stables. You'll learn to keep a more civil tongue in your head, living under the Chantry's roof." Bann Teagan called back over his shoulder. "We will return shortly, though I do need to stop by the kitchens first. The lad has decided to starve himself for the last day, and I don't want to send him off on an empty stomach."

"Fine, fine, just bring him back here when he's ready to leave," Eamon said, clearly dismissing them

And just like that, Alistair found himself walking out of Redcliffe's keep, heading toward a life he never wanted. He had no idea when, or even if, he would ever return here after today. It was then that he realized that he had forgotten to tuck his mother's amulet back under his tunic. He reached for it, intending to return it to its normal place... but what did it matter anymore? He was leaving Redcliffe Castle. His mother was a nobody; a serving girl of no importance to anyone, save one night when she dallied with a king. She was dead, and his father wanted nothing to do with him.

With a harsh jerk, Alistair yanked at the necklace, breaking the delicate clasp in its chain. As they passed under the inner portcullis, he looked briefly at the pendant's face one last time before throwing it against the nearby wall. The pewter disk shattered when it hit solid stone.

He didn't need the comfort of a loving and doting phantom mother any longer. He didn't need Arl Eamon, or Bann Teagan, or anyone here in Redcliffe. He didn't need _anyone at all_. All he needed to do was swing a sword, kill mages, and recite the Chant of Light until his tongue fell out. Why should Alistair care about anything else? No one else did.

He glanced back at the castle while crossing its massive stone entrance bridge, which caused his anger to boil yet again. The arlessa's parting words ran through his head. It was the first and last time he would ever agree with her on anything, ever. Good riddance, indeed.

.oOo.

  



	4. Make Love Not War

  


  


  


.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Elisara ~

* * *

There was a stranger staring back from the mirror. Oh, sure, her face was the same and hair was still dyed a violent red thanks to the dye Elisara had purchased from the shady dockside apothecary in Highever. It was the dress she wore. Ruffles and lace made from silk dyed the unfortunate green of Gwaren's heraldic dragon that made her look wholly unlike herself. The seamstress tittered as she fussed with the various seems of the dress, making sure that she would be able to have it fit Elisara's figure just so.

"You look stunning in that, Ellie," the queen-to-be remarked. "Just stunning."

Elisara frowned. Did the word "stunning" hold a different meaning here in Denerim? "You picked it out, did you not? I think you're more than a bit biased."

"No, Cousin, biased would be you thinking that dying your hair that unnatural shade of red was a good idea." Anora was not strictly her cousin, but she and Elisara had referred to each other as such for many years now.

"Mother had the servants try for three days to scrub it out," Elisara reveled in her victory. The hair dye had been laced with lyrium, so as to enhance its permanence. "It's not going anywhere. Besides, I like it!"

Even though they were not peers in age, they were the only teyrn's daughters in all of Ferelden. Elisara soaked up any attention Anora gave her, and Anora seemed to revel in teaching her all she knew about the world. It was no surprise that Anora had the respect that she did, and not simply for the fact that she was Prince Cailan's betrothed. _King_ Cailan's betrothed, she corrected herself.

Anora sighed. "As you wish. My father would have shaved my head and locked me in my room for a month were I to have attempted such a thing at your age."

"Well, your father is as grumpy as a baited bear. Mine just rolled his eyes and told Mother that I would grow out of it." Elisara smirked at the thought. Father, while mistaken in his assessment of her future, at least never demonized her for being herself.

"For your sake, I hope he's right."

"There we go!" the seamstress interjected. "Just a few touch-ups here and there, and this dress shall fit you like a glove, my lady." Funnily, Elisara could not remember ever owning a pair of gloves with whale boning and scratchy lace.

"Thank you, Gilda." Anora said with a nod in the elf's direction. "I'll see to Lady Cousland's undressing. You are dismissed." Gilda bowed to them both, collected her supplies, and quietly left Anora's dressing room.

"Finally!" Elisara exclaimed. "Get me out of this Maker-forsaken thing!" Anora's maid hurried over from where she had been waiting and began undoing the fastenings of the dress.

Anora giggled as she watched the layers of Elisara's dress being peeled away. "You know, Cousin, you would have been right at home back in Gwaren. Highever is too elegant, for Ferelden at least, while Gwaren isn't much more than a glorified logging camp. Too bad we couldn't have swapped places."

"Your father would have had me sent off to an Orlesian charm school at the age of five, the first time I slipped a frog into his bed," Elisara said with a laugh.

"Shows how little you know of my father."

"Besides," Elisara continued. "I don't think my father would have known what to do were I'd been a proper lady. My mother only became one later in life, and even she has to try awfully hard to maintain the façade."

That was what irked her the most about Mother. She had been trained to fight when she was younger yet she had screamed and ranted when she found out Father had allowed her to start training. Father had given her a pair of daggers, a real pair, live steel and not wood, for her thirteenth birthday. She had practiced every day since, even sparring with some of their entourage on the road to Denerim earlier in the month. On days she couldn't get away, she practiced her stances and motions before going to sleep at night.

"Your mother is a very elegant and cultured woman," Anora countered. "If it is a façade she maintains, she maintains it admirably."

"Clearly you've never seen her in her cups before."

Anora laughed. Even her laugh was a thing of refined beauty. "Well, I'll just have to keep an eye on her during the wedding banquet, then!"

Soon enough, Elisara was stripped down to her smallclothes. Verya, the maid, helped her back into one of the dresses that Mother had packed for her, a blue thing with far too many layers that shuffled noisily when she walked.

"At least this dress doesn't make your hair look like a ripe apple," Anora observed. "Will you be joining us this evening in the garden, Cousin? Garin Wulff has been asking for you."

Garin Wulff was the younger son of the arl of West Hill. They were of an age, and thus had been paired as attendants for the wedding. The Wulffs were not infrequent visitors to Highever, due to its proximity to West Hill, however the relationship between the Couslands and the Wulffs was a purely professional one. Father was not as close to Arl Wulff as he was to Arl Howe, and the thought of getting to know his son like this felt very forced. Mother obviously loved the idea of Ellie and Garin spending time together at the wedding, since she clearly hoped that they would strike up more than a friendship. That fact made Elisara want nothing more than to avoid him utterly. Nevertheless, she could not deny that would not be a wholly bad thing to get to know him. It would help to make their forced conversation during the wedding banquet a little less strained.

"Very well," Elisara agreed.

"Wonderful! I will see you there after dinner, then? Verya, see Lady Cousland back to her father." For all that she and Anora were friends, Anora was still the elder, and very, very much a queen already.

"Thank you, Cousin. I shall see you then," Elisara said with a polite nod.

.oOo.

* * *

Cursing as she flipped through the row of dresses in her armoire, Elisara tried to find something to wear that would be vaguely comfortable, yet not have her stand out like a sore thumb amongst the younger generation of the ruling class. Her mother had forbidden Elisara from packing any sensible clothing on this trip. Between King Maric's funeral ceremony and King Cailan and Lady Anora being wed, it had been deemed to be too solemn of an occasion to allow any kind of wardrobe transgressions.

Elisara had put up a token resistance to this decree, but in hindsight it shocked her to release she had done so mostly out of habit. It was the oddest thing, these realizations she had been having lately. While wearing the clothing Mother deemed appropriate for a noble woman visiting the royal palace, people seemed to regard her differently than they ever had before. Including the boys. _Especially_ the boys.

She still hated stuffy formal clothing, such as that green monstrosity Anora wanted her to wear while watching her swear her life to King Cailan. But she was finding that she liked the attention that she got for dressing up just as much as the attention she got for dressing like she was going into battle. Sometimes more, if the person supplying the attention was attractive.

After putting herself through several rounds of exhausting mental trials, Elisara finally decided on a simple purple dress with green highlights that didn't require a frilly petticoat but still seemed to cling well to her figure. The only problem with the dress was that she needed help putting it on, and, unlike Anora, she did not keep a maid to service her every want. Hopefully she could borrow Mother's maid for a short while. Tucking the dress over her arm, Ellie walked out of her bedroom.

The hallways of the Cousland's Denerim estate were long and narrow, and Mother and Father's rooms were at the far end of the wing. Hopefully they would be out, and Winoah could help her without Mother tittering over Ellie wearing a dress and being social. She had been avoiding Anora's nightly garden gatherings mostly for this reason. Swallowing hard, she knocked on her parent's bedroom door.

"Lady Elisara," Winoah greeted her as she opened the door. "It is your daughter, my lady." So much for secrecy.

"I… I don't need to come in, Mother" Elisara stuttered. "Can I just borrow Winoah for a few minutes? I need help, uh, airing out my sheets."

"Your sheets," Eleanor replied, clearly unconvinced. "Come in here, Ellie."

She sighed dramatically as she entered the room.

"I didn't know you had purple sheets, dear," Eleanor said, giving the bundle in Ellie's arms a questioning glare.

"Well, I also needed help putting on this dress," Elisara muttered.

"Oh? That's an odd request coming from you. What's the occasion?"

"Anora invited me back to the palace, to visit with her in the gardens this evening. And… well, she said that there would be others there. I didn't want to be the only woman there in leathers." Ellie hung her head at this admission. She knew it was the right thing, but admitting that to Mother made her feel ashamed and defeated.

Eleanor smiled. She was too much of a lady to let her gloating show, but Elisara knew it was there. "Very well. Winoah, please help my daughter with her dress. And, if I may make a suggestion? You may want to help her do something with that red mess on her head. Perhaps if it were pulled up into a bun or some coiled braids, it would look less like her head is on fire."

"Very good, Your Grace," the maidservant replied. "Shall, we, my lady?" She held open the door and bowed slightly.

Rolling her eyes, Elisara stormed out of the room, Winoah following a safe distance behind.

.oOo.

* * *

The green space near the center of Ferelden's royal palace was not very impressive when compared to the manicured gardens of Val Royeaux. Rough flagstone paths bisected the garden into squares, and the fountain that graced the center was a simple design reminiscent of a shellfish. Still, it was clear than Anora had made an attempt to give the place an air of elegance. Lanterns on poles had been installed along the pathways, while tables and chairs had been brought out to augment the benches surrounding the fountain. Two flamboyantly dressed minstrels circulated through the crowd along with fancily dressed serving men and women carefully balancing trays of wine glasses circulated around the grounds.

Tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear, Elisara gingerly walked out into the night air. When her family had first arrived in Denerim, before the funeral ceremony held for King Maric, she and Anora had spent a lot of time alone together in the gardens. They alternated between grieving, laughing, and catching up on events that passed since they last saw one another at last year's Landsmeet. It had been their own private haven, away from the somber nobles and the buzzing attendants tasked with pulling together a royal wedding over the span of one short month.

As the day of the wedding drew nearer, Anora began inviting the other various sons and daughters of the gentry to join them. Their parents had been attempting to hold the Landsmeet sandwiched in between the royal funeral and wedding, but given the loss of the old beloved king and the inexperience of the new one, it was a half-hearted thing at best. Under normal circumstances, many of the noble's children who would have been required to attend the long days of debate and discussion, while others wouldn't have travelled to Denerim at all. Anora's gatherings had become the place-to-be for all of the displaced noble youths during the long summer evenings. Gesturing to the nearest elven waiter, Elisara took a glass of red wine. She carefully wended her way through the throngs of people, searching for the party's hostess.

"Lady Cousland?" said an unfamiliar voice behind her. Turning, she found herself face to face with a blonde haired boy wearing a rust-orange suit. "Forgive me for being so forward, but ever since Lady Anora mentioned that you would be here this evening I've been watching for you. She…" He paused, coughing politely. "She mentioned the fact that you'd dyed your hair a most unusual shade."

"You must be Arl Wulff's son," Elisara replied, not wholly surprised by his boldness. "Garin, I believe?"

"Indeed," Garin said as he took her hand in his. Bowing slightly, he placed a light kiss on the back of Elisara's gloved hand. "May I call you Elisara?"

"You may," she concurred. "Since we've been saddled with one another for the duration of this royal circus, we should at least be on familiar terms."

"I wholly agree," Garin agreed. Elisara smiled in return, though it was mostly a cover to keep from outright giggling at the scruffy growth of hair she had just noticed on Garin's chin. Clearly, he had not inherited his father's impressively wooly facial hair.

Elisara snapped her fingers and gestured at another wandering attendant. "I've heard these things go easier after a few glasses of wine."

"I can't argue with that logic, my lady," he said as he helped himself to a glass.

"There you are, Cousin!" The crowd parted, allowing the king's betrothed and her entourage to make her way through to where Ellie and Garin stood. "I was afraid you weren't going to make it after all." Anora took Elisara's hands and leaned in, kissing her once on each cheek. "Though I see that Lord Garin has already made your acquaintance."

"He has, no thanks to someone tipping him off as to how to find me!" Elisara said, glaring at her friend with mock-anger.

"Your Highness's description was most apt," Gavin said with a satisfied smile.

"I will admit," Anora continued, "I had told him to watch for a girl with blood red hair wearing old, worn out leathers. I see you have least proven me wrong in the latter respect." She turned to Lord Garin. "Would you excuse us for a moment, Garin? I will return your lovely lady to you shortly."

"Of course, Your Highness." Garin bowed low and turned back to the throngs.

Elisara giggled and then took a sip of her wine. "I didn't want your guards to send me off to the training yard upon laying eyes on me, Cousin. Besides…" she glanced around and lowered her voice, leaning closer, "Do all men get so slack-jawed at the site of a woman's, how would I put it… attributes?"

Her friend smiled at her, a wicked bent coloring her grin. "A woman's charms can be one of her most powerful weapons. Do not neglect to learn the art of fighting with them in favor of your daggers. They can cut through knots in ways that your daggers cannot."

"I will remember," Elisara said with a nod. "And Maker knows I have the best teacher."

"A teacher who will probably be responsible for keeping an entire nation of petty freeholders in line without killing one another," Anora said bitterly. Her face suddenly took on the brooding look her father often wore. She sat down on one of the benches near the fountain, smoothing her crimson skirts in the process. "You should hear them bicker in the Landsmeet without Maric here to temper them. And that starry-eyed fiancé of mine does little to stop it, nor does he listen to my father's advice."

Knowing she had to tread carefully here, Elisara considered her words as she sat down on the same bench. "He's probably still reeling from his father's death. Maybe next year will be better." She took Anora's hand and squeezed it reassuringly, or so she hoped.

Anora frowned. "The workings of a nation do not stop to coddle our emotions. Or any other weakness." She drained most of the wine from her glass. "But perhaps you are right. Once we are married, things are going to change."

"It must be exciting, yes?" Elisara mused, leaping onto the change in topic. "I mean, the day is almost upon us! And you seem so calm about the whole thing. How do you do it, Cousin?"

"The same way one should handle running a nation: through delegating tasks to the right people," Anora said sagely. "Coupled with a hearty amount of swallowing your bile when those people make decisions that you may not agree with, but circumstances dictate you move forward with them anyway." With that, she handed her empty wine glass to her maid. "Verya, fetch me another one, the red this time." The maid bowed slightly and headed to do just that.

"But… so you're saying you don't have a say in the planning of your own wedding?" That sure didn't sound like the Anora Ellie knew. "Can't you just, you know, decree that things must be a certain way?"

"Hence the 'circumstances', Cousin," Anora explained. "An effective leader learns when and how to pick her battles. It's not like the wedding will suddenly be invalidated if the napkins are the wrong color or the cake isn't ten layers tall and stuffed with live doves."

Elisara giggled. "Is that truly what you wanted?"

"Of course not," Anora scoffed. "The truth is I don't really care what the cake looks like."

A sudden hush fell over the gathering, and the western pathway found itself quickly devoid of people. Even in the low lantern light, the mirror like surface of King Cailan's golden armor gleamed. A half-dozen guards trailed behind him, and all whom he passed either bowed or saluted him. Elisara sucked in her breath, shocked that the King himself had decided to join them. Anora stood to greet him as he approached the fountain, and Elisara followed suit, letting out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

Cailan gave Anora a chaste kiss on the cheek. "So I hear you've become quite the woman of the hour, dearest. One party in your honor wasn't enough?"

"One that I have to share with the other guest of honor, or were you planning on not attending?" Anora quipped.

"Oh, no fear of that," Cailan replied with a grin. "Your father would send all of Ferelden's armies after me were I to try something so daft."

"Good evening, Your Majesty," Elisara said, curtseying. "Please excuse me, I will leave you to your betrothed." She turned sharply, afraid that the King had seen her staring at him, her mouth agape.

"Ah, Lady Elisara, there is no need," Cailan said with a slight tilt of the head. "Your father speaks so highly of you, and yet he never did mention your illustrious hair."

Anora let out an audible snort. "Cailan, don't encourage her."

"Encourage her?" The King laughed. "I won't have to. I would bet a thousand sovereigns that cherry-red hair dye will fly off of apothecary shelves in the coming weeks. It's quite an impressive look. Simply glorious."

Elisara felt the blood rush to her face. The King liked her hair! She looked to the ground, bowing her head slightly and hoping that her heart would stay where it belonged. "Your Majesty is too kind."

"His Majesty is being ridiculous," Anora gave her future husband an icy glare.

"Yet you're still marrying me. That makes your behavior at least a little ridiculous as well, my dear."

Anora sighed a long suffering sigh. "Was there something you needed, Cailan, or did you just come here to make aspersions against my character?"

"Your father wishes to speak with us, in private. It should not be long, you can return to your party when we're through." He offered his glittering golden arm to Anora.

"Very well. You will excuse us, Cousin?" With that, Anora took Cailan's arm and tuned to leave.

"Of course. Good evening, Anora, Your Majesty," Elisara curtsied again, bowing deeper so as to avoid King Cailan's gaze. As they walked away, she couldn't help but feel jealous of Anora's luck. Cailan was radiant, with his long flowing hair and shining eyes. He was like a younger version of his late father, full of charm but lacking Maric's world-weariness. She sighed to herself. Whatever lesser lord or son of one she would be saddled with could not possibly ever compare to someone as alluring as the King.

"Lady Elisara?" Garin had returned in the wake of Anora's departure. She started, embarrassed that she had been caught standing and staring at Cailan as he departed. "Would you care to join us? This is my sister, Josephine."

"A pleasure," Elisara replied.

"She's going to be a part of the wedding with us," Garin explained. "Though her companion seems a bit less… shall we say, sociable?"

"Oh?" Elisara turned to face the other woman. "Who have you been paired with, Lady Josephine?"

Josephine made a less-than-gracious face. "Thomas Howe. I believe you know him, yes?"

Elisara crinkled her own nose. "I do. You have my deepest condolences."

"Indeed," Garin agreed. "He's done nothing but drink since he arrived in Denerim. Lady Anora demanded that he attend her little shindig tonight, but he disappeared not long after she introduced him to Josie." The younger Wulff gestured over to a far corner of the gardens, where several young men were gathered. They were clearly lost to their cups, Thomas perhaps even more so. The serving staff seemed to be avoiding their corner except to satisfy their bellowed demands for more wine. The latest serving girl to catch their attention squealed as Vaughan Kendells, the son of the arl of Denerim, pinched her bottom. After a brief scuffle, Thomas relieved her of her wine tray while Vaughan grabbed her by her wrists and forcefully shoved her against the nearby wall, kissing her sloppily.

"Garin, _do_ something!" Josephine whispered, yanking on her brother's sleeve. His face had turned a bright red.

"Just leave them be," Elisara said, waiving a dismissive hand in the direction of the drunken men. "It's not worth getting involved."

"Not worth getting involved? He's going to… well I've heard stories about Vaughan Kendells and his elves." Josephine said, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard.

"All it will do is cause a fight," Elisara chided her. She did _not_ want Anora to return to the party and find it having degenerated into a drunken brawl, not if she could help it. "We can't change the world by denying one drunken fool his pleasures."

"Perhaps not," Garin countered. "But we can change _her_ world…" He began walking purposefully over to Vaughan.

All Elisara could think about what how angry Anora would be. "Wait, Garin, stop!" she called, but he was already too far ahead of her. Josephine grabbed her arm, and Elisara did not fight her pull. If Garin was too stupid to realize that he should avoid a broken nose and a black eye days before a royal wedding, perhaps he deserved what he got.

It didn't take long from Garin's first blow for the entire inebriated crowd to pile on Garin, throwing punches left and right. Someone on the other side of the garden screamed for the guards. Elisara saw the elf girl slink away through one of the side doors as the palace guards burst through. Vaughan and his cronies scattered, while Garin lay in the grass, face covered in blood.

"Garin!" Josephine screamed as she ran to him. Elisara followed, mostly because she knew that that Anora would demand answers about what happened.

The guards were helping Garin to his feet as Josephine reached them. "Brother, are you alright?"

Garin smiled, but his face fell as he winced at the pain. "I think they broke my nose, but other than that, I think I'm alright." His left eye was swollen shut already, and his right one puffy. Elisara sighed. This was the man at the wedding she would have to sit with, dance with, pretend to make conversation with? By the Maker, she had the worst luck.

"Let's go, Garin," Josephine said, putting her brother's arm around her shoulders. "Father can call for a healer to be sent... please excuse us, Lady Elisara."

Elisara nodded. "Maker watch over you, Garin," she called.

The garden had emptied. The lanterns swayed in the breeze as the wind blew through the manicured trees. Elisara sighed. Better she find Anora sooner than later, lest the unpleasant news come to her from someone else's mouth.

.oOo.

* * *

Two days later, Elisara paid a visit to Arl Wulff's estate to check on Garin. If she was to be paired with a human practice dummy for the wedding, she at least wanted to survey the damage first. Perhaps she could convince Anora to allow her a new partner, were Garin's condition poor enough.

Fergus had been assigned to accompany her on her way to the Market District. Even with the guard numbers having been bolstered, the sheer number of nobles currently in Denerim made the thieves and back alley thugs rather bold. His wife, Oriana, had also decided to accompany them, with the intent of doing a little shopping after their courtesy call was complete.

It felt good to be back in her leathers. Mother may not have allowed her any sensible clothing, but Elisara certainly wasn't going to give up on her training, and that required her armor. They were an old, slightly mismatched set, pieced together from the various leavings of Highever's soldiers, but they were _hers_. She loved the feel of them, the smell, the way her daggers at her hips smacked rhythmically against them as she walked.

After announcing themselves to the guards flanking the estate door, the three Couslands were shown to a couple plush benches off to the side of the main entrance hall. Various generic paintings, the types that could be found for sale on the docks of any port city, decorated the walls. Several minutes later, Garin Wulff joined them, his face slightly bruised but looking infinitely better than he had two nights ago.

"Lady Elisara! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Garin asked, seeming genuinely pleased.

"I just wanted to check and make sure you were alright after what happened," Elisara explained. She gestured toward her brother and sister-in-law. "This is my brother, Fergus Cousland, and his wife, Lady Oriana." They stood. "Fergus, Oriana, this is Garin Wulff." They exchanged pleasantries while Elisara took a closer look at Garin's face.

"I must say, Garin," Elisara began. "I'm having a hard time believing my eyes! How is it that you've healed so quickly?"

"It was a stroke of luck, honestly," Gairn said with a grin. "My father sent some of the staff to seek out a doctor who could help. As it turns out, there happens to be a mage staying here in the Chantry, as she's the Circle's representative here to attend the royal wedding. She's a fantastic healer. It'll take a few days for some of the bruising to fade, but she fixed my nose right up and drained the swelling."

"How fortunate!" The thought of magical healing made Elisara nervous, but she couldn't really complain. It had made a potentially awkward situation become much less complicated. Even if it had been an elf who did the healing, she supposed she should be grateful.

"Would you care to accompany us, Lord Garin?" Oriana interjected. "We were going to take a tour of the Market District."

"Thank you kindly, Lady Oriana," Garin said with a slight bow. "But my father has, um, requested that I remain here until the day of the wedding. I'm sorry, but I will have to decline your kind invitation."

"Very well," Oriana replied. "We shall take our leave then."

"Indeed," Elisara agreed. "I'm glad that you're doing better Garin. I shall see you at the wedding?"

"You shall." Garin took Elisara's hand and kissed it lightly. "It's been a pleasure, both seeing you again and being able to behold you dressed as Anora originally described." A playful smirk tugged at his lips.

Elisara turned away, grinning stupidly. Garin Wulff was no Cailan, but he had a certain sweetness about him that could not be denied. "I'm glad then, that we were able to cross paths again. Farewell, Garin."

"Farewell…" Garin stood in the doorway, watching them as they headed down the road.

Oriana grinned wickedly. "You know, Ellie, I think he likes you!"

"Oh please," Elisara scoffed. "Counting today, we've spent all of a quarter hour together. He doesn't know anything about me!"

"And since when does that have anything to do with such things?" Oriana said, still grinning.

"Oh, hush. Lets go look at the shiny things, okay?" Elisara hurried ahead to the open air market in the main square. The first vendor she came to was one who sold various blown glass items. Vases, bowls, twisting sculptures, and figurines, all made of colored glass. Fergus and Oriana soon caught up with her, and began browsing the stall themselves.

"Oooh, look at these, Fergus! Oh, why didn't we have something like this commissioned for us when we got married?" Fergus and Oriana had been married for just over a year now. As much as it offended Elisara's sense of righteousness, it truly seemed as if they had come to care for one another, for all that their marriage had been arranged by Mother and King Maric. "Ellie, come here and look at this! It's just precious."

Precious. Whenever Oriana found something "precious" it generally meant that Elisara would despise it. She walked over, putting on her politely interested face. "What did you find?"

"Look at this!" Oriana held up a round glass globe and gave it a firm shake. The globe seemed to be filled with water that was full of little bits of white fluff. Two figures stood in the middle, a man and a woman. "Isn't it beautiful? It looks just like King Cailan and Lady Anora, don't you think?"

Elisara squinted at the statues inside the globe. Sure enough, whoever had sculpted them had attempted to make the figures resemble the King and his soon-to-be Queen. Anora's figure was acceptable, she supposed, but they had Cailan's face and eyes all wrong. And that nose! The sculptor had given Cailan a poker for a nose. She handed the globe back to Oriana. "Pretty."

Oriana placed the globe back among its mates. There had to be at least two dozen of them on the glass merchant's shelf. It made Elisara wonder what people would think when and if she was forced to marry. Would they make little snow sculptures featuring her and her future husband? Or would no one care, so long as she showed up and did her duty? The thought depressed her more than a little.

Sighing, Elisara hurried to catch up with her brother and his blissfully happy wife. Fergus always got everything. Even the impossible things.

.oOo.

* * *

 _Lady Elisara Cousland_

 _You are hereby cordially invited to_

 _A Gentlewoman's Gathering and Formal Tea,_

 _on the eve of the royal wedding of_

 _King Cailan and Lady Anora._

 _Your attendance is requested in the_

 _Mac Tir Family apartments,_

 _on the evening of the thirty-first day of Solace,_

 _eight hours past noon._

 _Refreshments will be provided._

The seal of the Mac Tir family adorned the bottom right hand corner of the invitation, its outline visible within the green wax. Elisara almost crumpled the parchment in her hand, but instead placed it on her vanity. She couldn't possibly imagine anything more boring. At least at Anora's garden parties, there had been a mixed group. It was much easier to tolerate mingling with a bunch of strangers when some of them were attractive young men. This gathering however was part of wedding tradition. Bride and groom were not supposed to see one another until the wedding ceremony the next day, and it was the bride's attendants who were tasked with keeping them apart. Elisara had heard rumors of a similar affair being held for King Cailan, and from the sound of things his party certainly wouldn't involve tea and refreshments.

Still, she couldn't just decline the invitation… could she? There were at least seven or eight other girls assigned to be Anora's attendants. They certainly wouldn't miss her. Anora might, but she would get over it. She should have more on her mind than why Elisara didn't want to play tea party.

Suddenly, there was a knock at her door. "May I come in, Pup?" It was her father. Which was surprising, for he practically lived at the palace right now. He was the last person she expected to come looking for her in the middle of the day. She hurried over and unlatched the door.

"Of course, Father," Elisara said as she opened the door wide. "Come in."

Bryce Cousland walked over to Elisara's bed and sat down, patting the spot next to him with his hand. "Your mother tells me you've been being unusually social and even dressing appropriately. Are you feeling alright, Ellie?" He smiled at her, chuckling.

Elisara sat down next to her father. "It's just crazy, isn't it? Next thing you know I'll climb to the top of Fort Draken and slaughter a dragon."

"Honestly, that wouldn't faze me for an instant, dear." Bryce took his daughter's hand in his, patting it with the other. "But the other thing I heard did kind of intrigue me. Even more than the dresses."

Elisara felt her stomach lurch. "Oh?" she replied nervously. "What have you heard?"

"Your mother says that you and Balon Wulff's son seem to have made a… connection."

Elisara leapt off the bed, livid. "We talked for maybe _five minutes!_ I felt bad because he got the tar knocked out of him at Anora's party, and I didn't want to be stuck with a partner at the wedding that looked like he'd been run over by a cart! That's why I went to check on him. If his father hadn't found that mage, I would have asked Anora if I could be paired with someone else! Does that sound like a 'connection' to you, Father?"

"Calm down, Pup," Bryce said, not unkindly. "Why do you think I came here to talk to you about it? It didn't sound like you at all, but your mother swore up and down that was what Oriana told her."

"Of course she would say that," Elisara snapped. "She thinks she's so smart and subtle 'cause she's from Antiva. We're barbarians, you know. Our brains freeze in the winter and never quite thaw out in the summer."

"Be nice to your sister, Ellie," Bryce rebuked. "She doesn't truly believe that."

"Really," Elisara spat. "Because you've spent so much time with her, you know her every thought and feeling. The same way you know I'm head over heals in love with Garin, I presume?"

Bryce sighed. "If you would calm down and listen, you would have heard me earlier. I didn't think it sounded like something you would do, to give your heart away so frivolously. So I figured I should come to you and find the truth."

"Oh." Elisara stopped, dumbfounded. "Thank you, Father."

"You may be exasperating at times, but I know my Pup." Bryce gestured for her to return to the bed, which she did. "Your mother just wants what she thinks is best for you, so she latches onto things that coincide with that."

"I've noticed." Elisara crossed her arms and sulked.

"Ellie, I know this is hard for you to accept. And you don't have to just quite yet, you're still young. But, there will come a day where you will have to marry, and marry well. Keeping peace in the Bannorn, or among the other nations of Thedas, that is a duty we must fulfill that goes beyond our personal desires."

"You just think you can control me," Elisara's anger flared at the thought.

"The only way I could truly control you would be to chain you to the wall," Bryce replied. "And last I checked there were no manacles or fetters installed here."

"But you still expect me to behave like a proper lady and do proper things and have a proper marriage."

Bryce nodded. "It is the price we pay for being born to privilege. We organize, run, and protect our lands, and the people support us in return so that we can continue to do so. We owe them a debt we can hardly begin to repay, but one of the ways we can do so is to provide peace. I can't imagine a more peaceful way to do this than a man and a woman coming together in marriage."

"That depends on the marriage, does it not?" Elisara snapped.

"Everything depends on what people we place in what roles. And people trust bloodlines, Ellie, especially ancient ones that have brought them prosperity. We Couslands have ruled in Highever for longer than Ferelden has existed as a sovereign nation. Our people trust us to do what is right. Would you betray that trust, simply because of a childish whim?"

Elisara sighed. "But how does that matter to me? Highever will belong to Fergus, not me. I'll just be shunted off to some backwater freehold so that the ungrateful sons I'm forced to breed can brag how they're part Cousland."

"Tell me, Pup," Bryce answered. "Have you a crystal ball hidden under your bed? Do you know for certain what the future holds? If so, best to share that knowledge with others, so they, too, can make such informed decisions."

"I…" Ellie's voice trailed off. "No, Father, of course I don't."

"Then you don't know what the future holds for you, or your brother, or anyone," Bryce remarked. "Your brother could fall down the steps tomorrow and break his neck. Unless Oriana is holding back on a certain type of news, that would make you the heir to Highever."

She had known this, of course, but that wasn't truly possible. Was it? Fergus never had anything bad happen to him. Why should that change now?

"We must plan for the worst and hope for the best in this life," Bryce continued. "And that includes keeping our honor and holding true to duty, for these things will help us no matter what the future brings. But I've talked your ear off enough for one day, Pup." He grinned as the look on Elisara's face confirmed his suspicions. He patted her leg reassuringly. "I'll leave you to your thoughts, then."

As he headed toward the door, Elisara almost said something but decided against it. She settled on a mumbled good-bye as he shut her chamber door. He meant well. He _always_ meant well, as did everyone else. But couldn't they see that they asked too much, just because of an accident of birth? Even Father had been being less permissive of her ways, ever since that day last winter when they'd told her she was now truly a woman. It seemed a silly thing to base such a huge distinction on, yet there it was, and there it was again as a reminder each turn of the moon. It had been after that, when Father had allowed her live steel and the freedom to train at arms. But that had been a birthday gift so Elisara was unsure whether or not that was tied to her newly confirmed femininity.

Her eyes traveled across the room and landed on Anora's invitation. Standing, she sauntered over to her desk, grabbed the letter, and crumpled it into a ball. That party represented everything that a young noblewoman should be excited about, and the thought of going made her both angry and sick to her stomach. With a flick of the wrist, she tossed the crumpled parchment into her small fireplace. The hearth was cold, now, but she knew the servants would light it this evening to ward off the inevitable chill.

 _Light as a feather, silent as a wraith._ No one could control the shadows. She would do the exact opposite of what the invitation asked of her; attend the exact type of party at which she should be turning up her nose.

Pulling parchment and ink from her vanity drawer, Elisara set to work writing an invitation of her own.

.oOo.

* * *

The scent of the river was overpowering here, a peculiar combination wetness, rotten bilge, and salt tang from the nearby Amaranthine. Elisara stood at the midpoint of the bridge, watching the Drakon River flow beneath her to where it met the sea. The lantern lights stationed across the bridge winked on the ripples of the water beneath her.

She heard him approach before his feet even touched the stone bridge. Given that, she was shocked that he had made it out of his father's estate at all. Looking up as he drew nearer, she groaned inwardly as she realized he was wearing a long hooded cloak, wool-grey and not-at-all indicative of someone trying to avoid notice. Elisara sighed and rubbed her eyes.

"I almost expected you not to be here, my lady. This felt terribly like a wicked prank, wherein my older brother would jump out from behind a rock and laugh as soon as I arrived." With that, Garin removed his hood.

"I almost expected you to be too chicken-livered to dare escaping your father's manse," Elisara retorted. "Shall we be off, then?"

"Aye," Garin agreed. "Lets find this Pearl before I lose my nerve,"

"I saw the sign for it on the way over to meet you. C'mon, it's this way." Elisara turned and headed to the south end of the bridge.

Denerim had two docks, north and south, and they were not at all similar. The north docks were more of an extension of the Market District. The trade vessels that docked there tended to carry more specialized items: object d'art from Orlais and beyond, gems and jewels, spices, silks, and other such luxury items. The south docks, on the other hand, were focused primarily on exports and large shipments of raw materials. It was a far rougher place, full of warehouses, large bellied cargo ships, and the types of establishments that catered to those who worked in or on such places. The further south one went, the rougher things got. Fortunately, The Pearl was near the north end, just south of the Drakon river. Southern enough for its existence to not offend the delicate dignity of any foreign merchants, while northern enough to give it a reputation for being the best whorehouse in all of Denerim.

A sign hung above the door of The Pearl, depicting a woman's lower half, completely naked save for a carefully situated sea scallop at the apex of her thighs. The shell was depicted as open wide, with a single moonstone "pearl" in its center. It creaked a bit as it swung in the night breeze. Just the sight of it made Elisara's stomach tingle in ways that she probably should have felt embarrassed about.

As Garin and Ellie approached the door, a pair of guards stepped into their path. "Th'Pearl's closed tonight. Private party," the first guard said gruffly.

"Yeah," the second one chimed in, laughing. "Go find yourselves a less reputable place to go make moon eyes and little bastards, kids."

Garin nervously reached into his coat. "I, er, yes, well, I'm here for the party. Here is my invitation." He managed to pull himself together once he had the piece of paper in his hand.

The left hand guard took it from him and examined it. "So, it appears you do. But I don't see any girl names on this fancy piece of paper." He crossed his arms and looked Elisara up and down. "I suppose you're pretty enough, but we only interview new applicants on Tuesdays before noon."

New? Maker's Breath, he thought she was…

Rage filled her, pushing all thoughts of subterfuge from her head. "I am the Lady Elisara Cousland, daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland." One of her daggers flew into her hand, and she pointed it threatenly at the guard. "You _will_ permit me to enter as a patron, not as one of your… your _whores_!"

"Oooh, well would you look at that! Her High Prickliness seems to have some teeth on her," Lefty said, clearly not as impressed as he should have been. "Wouldn't her father be proud to know that Daddy's Little Girl found her appetites so young." He grinned wickedly at her, which only made Elisara glare more harshly at him and stick out her chin in defiance.

"She's, um, here with me," Garin interjected, clearly uncomfortable with the idea.

Lefty grinned lecherously at the young nobleman. "Didn't your father tell you that's not how these places work?" He pointed at Elisara with his thumb. "Shoulda left her at home, boy."

"Jus' let 'em in. If the King wants her gone, he'll see 'er thrown out, mark my words." Righty reached for the door handle, opening it as he stepped back. "Welcome to The Pearl, _Your Highnesses_ ," He dipped into a mocking bow.

"Come, Garin," Elisara said haughtily as she walked to the door. "Let us leave these wretches to their _duty_." She said the last word like she had put something sour in her mouth. Garin hurried after her, which gave the guards another reason to laugh heartily.

Once they were inside, they were overcome by the bright lights and perfumed air. No one was in the first room, but they could see several people carousing in the room beyond. A hush overcame the room as they entered.

"Hey Wulff, was your invite marked Bring Your Own Wench? I thought avoiding that was why we came here!" The room filled with laugher at Vaughan's joke. "Or is she your bodyguard perhaps? Here to prevent you from getting the stuffing knocked out of you a second time in one week?" More laughter.

"Sod off, Vaughan," Elisara snapped.

"I'm not here to fight you," Garin said simultaneously.

"Now now, gents, remember. We are here to make love, not war, right?" Elisara's head snapped to the back corner of the room, as her heart came up into her throat. Of course she'd known that King Cailan would be here, it was his party after all. But hearing his voice, seeing him walking over to greet them… she swallowed, trying to regain her composure.

"Your Majesty," Elisara said, bowing low. Garin followed suit.

"A pleasure as always, Garin," Cailan said, nodding his head in her companion's direction. He quickly turned his gaze on Ellie, however. "I must say, however, I certainly did not expect to see your companion here. Certainly Anora must be missing her right-hand woman, yes?"

"You flatter me, Your Majesty," Elisara said, her voice giving way just a bit.

"Please, call me Cailan," the King said as he kissed Elisara's right hand in greeting. "I must say, now that I think about it, what with the stories I've heard about you it shouldn't surprise me that you'd prefer ale and whores to tea and maidens."

Elisara wasn't quite sure what to make of that, or how to reply. His shatteringly blue eyes met hers, and he grin was as irrepressible as it was regal. "Th- thank you, Your… Cailan. At least, I think I should be thanking you..."

"I speak but the truth, dear lady. Though the stories say nothing of your beauty. A crime against the Maker's Creation, that is!" Cailan gestured to the room at large. "Make yourselves at home. Order yourselves a drink, a woman, or a man, whatever suits your fancy. Sanga will see to your needs." The woman behind the bar tilted her head in acknowledgement. The golden king's eyes glittered as he turned his gaze back to Garin. He leaned down and whispered something in the younger man's ear while staring intently at Elisara, which made Garin's other ear turn red with embarrassment.

With a wink in Elisara's direction, Cailan returned to where he had been sitting. Two of the establishment's women, one an elf and the other a dwarf, immediately climbed back into his lap. The elf played with the King's long, blonde hair while she nuzzled and nibbled on his neck, while the dwarf handed him a giant stein full of ale.

"Come on, Elisara, what are you staring at?" Garin's question popper her back to reality. Her face felt flush.

"Right," she replied, clearing her throat. "Lets get a chair and some ale." Finding the furthest table away from Vaughan and Thomas Howe, they settled in and ordered two tankards of ale.

It didn't take long for the night to take on a very fuzzy-around-the-edges character.

The Pearl only employed a handful of men, but the ones that they did… Andraste's Mercy, they were works of art. They couldn't compare with the King, of course, but not every piece of art had to be a priceless masterpiece in order to be worth appreciating. Ellie did a lot of blushing and hiding in her cups. The men there that evening, save for one which Elisara recognized but could place, seemed to prefer the attentions of the women. Three of the men-for-hire in particular plied their attention onto Elisara mercilessly.

"Too bad you didn't come dressed for the occasion, my dear. I can just imagine what you'd look like in a tight leather corset and stockings…"

"Maker's Breath, look at the daggers she wields! Does she like her men so similarly sized, I wonder?."

"Such a ripe young peach you are, girl. I wouldn't be shocked to learn that you've never been _plucked_ before. Don't worry, Henrick and I are quite gentle with our less experienced patrons."

The peach comment set her head spinning. While the attention she was getting was certainly fun, it was just a bit too _much_ all at once. At the same time, some base part of her brain told her just to go with the flow. With every sip of ale, that voice seemed to get louder and louder. This Henrick especially caught her eye. She thought he said he was originally from the Anderfells, which would explain the broad shoulders and curly blonde hair. If she squinted just right, or maybe finished another tank of ale, he almost looked like the King.

The King. She had completely forgotten about him, once she had started drowning in man flesh. Looking over across the room, he seemed _very_ busy indeed with the same elf girl from earlier. Thoughts of Anora flashed across her consciousness. What would she think of all this? Did she care? Should she tell her? Surely she knew full well what kind of party this was. Was she worried that Ellie had never shown up at her party? What if she sent people to look for her?

Her breath caught in her throat. "Garin," she called out, "Maybe a break from all this would serve us well? This ale... it has me feeling quite flush."

Garin, who was clinging to the armrests of his chair with white knuckled fists, simply nodded as he got up to join her. They headed to the front room of the brothel, which was still blissfully empty. As they crossed the threshold, Sanga the madam called to them.

"The king's bought out all our rooms, lad. You don't need to go sneaking off with her. The fee does presume that you'd be employing one of my people, but no skin off my back if you make your own entertainment since it's all paid up already."

Garin turned an even deeper shade of red. Elisara looked at him, really studying him this time. Or at least as much as she could through the ale-haze. He wasn't all that unattractive, in fact his wisp of a beard actually was starting to grow on her. And, as she was learning, she apparently had a natural attraction to light haired men. She daringly slipped her hand around his waist. "Why don't we take her up on that offer? Just to get away from the crowds and the noise, of course."

Garin swallowed audibly. "Of course," he agreed. If mice could talk, she mused, they would sound just like that.

Heading back through the main room while trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, Ellie and Garin headed out of the common room. She did happen to notice Thomas Howe passed out at one of the tables, while Vaughn Kendells gave them a wickedly mischievous look. The King was too entwined with his elf girl to notice their passing. Seeing them together seemed to set her blood boiling in more ways that one. She wished for a brief moment she was an elf. _That_ elf, in particular. She hurried through the door, shaking the thought from her head.

The door of the last room on the right was cracked open. She could hear voices and… other sounds coming from behind the closed doors as they passed. Her body _reacted_ in response to the sounds. Slipping into the unoccupied room, Elisara quickly closed the door behind them.

"I must say," Elisara said with a sigh of relief. "You men sure do know how to throw a party! Maker's Breath, the women back at… at the palace would faint clean away at the thought of all this."

Garin chucked nervously. "I've never been to a party quite like this, myself. My mother will be furious when she finds out." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"If you're smart, you'll sneak back into your rooms come daybreak with no one the wiser," Elisara said, grinning broadly. "At least, that's my plan, anyway."

"You act like this is no big deal," Garin chuckled.

"It's always a big deal," she shrugged, "but it's so much easier here than in Highever. Even with Father being smart enough to bring some of our personal guard with us this time. He thinks he can keep me under lock and key, like some precious bird… bah. I'm rambling. I've learned that being sneaky and stealthy can get one into, or out of if you prefer, a lot of interesting situations."

"Like ones that lead to sex-parties in fancy whorehouses?"

"Exactly those types of situations," Ellie said with a self-satisfied grin. "The kinds that leave you alone with a cute boy and a plush fancy bed." Had she just said that out loud? The ale. It had to be the ale.

"Well, I…" Garin's voice trailed off. "It _is_ a party, after all. And, given the choice, I'd prefer to, um, _celebrate_ with a lady rather than a fancily dressed whore."

Her heart raced. The animalistic part of her brain was wondering why she was holding back, while the rational part froze her in place.

Mother would be furious if she did this, Father only slightly less so.

 _Perfect._

"Have you?" Ellie asked. "Celebrated, I mean. Before… now."

"Once," he admitted. "With… with a woman like you saw out there. Jared bought me a night with one as a birthday gift last year."

His brother. Of course. "What's it feel like?" She was stalling. If she really wanted to know, she would be naked already.

"It feels like… need."

"That's it?" She arched an eyebrow at him.

"Well, if you're so curious… it's not exactly the kind of thing that's best described in words." Garin stood and walked over to her, awkwardly taking her hand in his. "Like this," he said as his other hand caressed her face. Pulling her close, he kissed her tentatively. The surge that went through her entire being at that mere touch of his lips amazed her. She kissed him back and pulled him closer.

"We, we don't have to do this, you know," Garin muttered through their awkward fumbling.

"This is why I came here," she explained. "And, while it's not quite what I bargained for, it is the exact opposite of what I should be doing."

"So, you _do_ think it's a bad idea."

"It's a perfectly awful idea, but the most fun ideas often are." Grinning wickedly, Elisara began undoing the buttons of Garin's shirt. "Now what was it you said before about not using words?"

.oOo.

* * *

The eyes. All those eyes, staring at them, watching them. Did they know? How could they know? Maybe she walked differently now. Or something in the way she carried herself. How could they _not_ know?

And why did it matter, anyway? Just because she was a woman? Maker banish them all to the depths of the Fade.

She forced herself to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, as she walked arm and arm with Garin down the center aisle of the royal Chantry cathedral. It certainly didn't help that King Cailan was standing in front of the altar at the Grand Cleric's left hand. His white enameled armor seemed to shine with an unearthly glow, a glow which extended to his face when he caught Elisara's eye. His eyes narrowed mischievously and his mouth formed a subtle grin. He couldn't possibly know about what they had done last night, could he? The only person in the common room when they slipped out in the wee hours of the morning was a snoring Thomas Howe. Not only that, when she and Garin had slipped out of the common room, all King Cailan's attentions were seemingly absorbed by the elf girl. Or had they? Maybe he was he just amused by the fact that she had shunned Anora's party for his. Somehow, she had her doubts about that.

Elisara curtsied as she took her leave of Garin, keeping her gaze firmly on the floor and away from His Glorious Majesty, and took her place on the left-hand side of the altar facing the Grand Cleric. Soon enough, the orchestra changed from its quiet repetitive refrain to the first notes of the traditional wedding march. Snapping her eyes quickly to the back of the chapel to as to avoid another awkward shared glance, she watched intently as Anora and her larger-than-life father made their way to the front of the chapel. Both Mac Tirs kept their gazes focused straight ahead, their postures erect, and their faces neutral. While King Cailan may have dressed the part, these two lived and breathed it. Did becoming the heroic savior of one's nation truly change one so much? Could a farmer's son truly know how to become so wholly noble?

When they reached the dais, Teyrn Mac Tir turned to face his daughter, holding her white gloved hands in his. A faint hint of a smile crossed his normally dower face. Anora bowed her head slightly, then turned to join Cailan and the Grand Cleric. The teyrn sat down on the bench in the front row, just behind where Elisara was standing. She wondered if he was still smiling, but knew it would be uncouth to turn and stare.

The ceremony was long winded and dull, for it seemed that Anora wished to honor the entire Bannorn by having so many nobles perform readings from the Chant of Light. It was only then that it hit her. Every single person that Anora had requested to serve Cailan and herself as attendants were young and currently un-betrothed noble's children. It explained why Garin's brother Jared, his elder by five years, had been overlooked while he and his sister had themselves been given the honor. It explained that grotesque drunken sot Thomas Howe as well. Anora was playing the noble matchmaker. Elisara sighed quietly to herself. It seemed that even her friend had no problem betraying her in the name of political wrangling.

Finally, after an age and a half had passed, or at least seemed to, the Grand Cleric proclaimed the pair husband and wife. They kissed, awkwardly and almost chastely, in front of the entire assemblage. Elisara couldn't help but to note the striking difference between that kiss and the not-chaste kisses Cailan had been giving that elf last night. Politely retrained applause, punctuated by the occasional enthusiastic cheer, filled the cathedral. Elisara hoped this was the end, but when the applause died down the Grand Cleric called for Anora to step forward. She did so, as Cailan stepped back a small ways. Kneeling before the elderly Mother, Anora bowed her head. After making a gesture of blessing over her, the Grand Cleric placed a dainty golden crown on Anora's head and proclaimed her Queen of Ferelden. More cheering and civilized applause. From what the rumors said, and Anora herself had confirmed to Elisara, the now-Queen had insisted on being crowned as soon as she and Cailan were wed. To avoid any confusion, Anora had claimed. As if anyone would doubt for a moment that she was not Cailan's rightful queen. Those that may entertain such thoughts, Elisara knew, would be best served to never speak them aloud.

Only then did the royal couple turn and head down the center aisle of the chantry. Thank the Maker, the ceremony was over. But for all that they still had a long day ahead of them. As she and Garin performed the stately recessional march down the white carpeted walkway, Cailan and Anora glittering regally in front of them, Anora's message to her wedding party became abundantly clear.

The eyes were back on her. She knew they could tell. Each and every one. Ellie had fallen for Anora's trap, hook line and sinker. Steeling herself, she swore that she would never fall prey to such ministrations ever again. Her heart was still firmly hers, even if her supposed purity was not. She took solace in that. Her body and her heart were hers to give, when and where she saw fit. The Maker take them _all_ if they dared to try and force her to do otherwise.

.oOo.

  



	5. Confession Day

  


  


  


.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Alistair ~

* * *

The bells rang at six hours past midnight each morning, light or dark, warm or cold. They called it First Bells, and the only thing Alistair liked about this time of day was that bell ringing duty fell to Divine Initiates, not to Templar ones. He had always found the sound of them beautiful. When they were just a part of the everyday background noise at Redcliffe Castle, that is. Now, they were just the harbinger of the start of another day living under the Chantry's roof.

Everyone who wasn't the Revered Mother or the Knight Commander was expected to start their day at First Bells. Dark and cold days, like this day, were particularly hard to wake up and face. A fortnight since Wintersend, Ferelden found itself locked in the middle of winter's last grand stretch. Cold and snow were the long, harsh reality, and spring was something out of a fairy tale which happened a long time ago and very far, far away.

Staring up at the rough-hewn rafters above him, Alistair heard his bunkmate stirring below. Sure enough, his mattress soon received its morning boot from below. Simon was nothing if not predictable. "Time to get up, Bastard."

Alistair ignored him. The older boy kicked the upper bunk again, harder this time. "Knock it off, Simon," Alistair complained. They had at least ten minutes before the Knight-Lieutenant came in and bellowed at them

"Suit yourself," Simon replied, kicking the bunk one last time. "We shall await the arrival of the lordling at his leisure." The angry sarcasm cut through Alistair like a hot knife. It was all he could do to bite his tongue and not respond to the jape.

Waiting until Simon was dressed and heading out the dormitory door, Alistair made his way down the simple ladder at the end of his bed. While slothfulness in the morning was a perfectly acceptable sin to confess to, he had found that re-using that particular one got him stern glares from the Revered Mother. It was as if she believed that four years and counting of being forced to wakefulness at First Bells surely should have cured him of that by now.

He gingerly stepped across the cold stone floor to his thin shoes, then turned to open the small chest allotted to him for personal items. A small sack near the very bottom contained the few items he'd been allowed to bring with him from Redcliffe Castle, but Alistair rarely opened it anymore. It reminded him too strongly of his past life, never mind the fact that the other boys mocked him for having brought "dolls" with him to the Chantry. Besides that, the chest contained mostly socks, smallclothes, and night shifts. The shifts belonged to no one in particular; he was given several fresh ones every week and was expected to keep them clean. All of his socks and pairs of smallclothes, however, were marked with Alistair's name stitched into the fabric with huge, clumsy stitches. Laundry was done once a week by the lay sisters, and it would have been an impossible task to return everyone's underthings to their rightful owners otherwise. None of the initiates looked forward to that day that came every fall, where new underthings were given out and everyone was forced to spend their morning lessons stitching like old ladies. Well, except maybe Rob, who had been blessed with the shortest name.

Grabbing the necessary items, and making sure to change his smallclothes while still wearing his night shift, Alistair dressed for the day. Templar initiates were required to wear yellow and purple robes, the exact opposite in color to the ones that the fully-sworn Templars wore. Alistair hated the color. Some called it "gold" but to him it was just plain yellow. And ugly. New robes were the one thing that Alistair looked forward to receiving when he became a full Templar.

"Another day of drudgery, violence, and self-flagellation. Good times..." Alistair complained to no one in particular. He sighed as he headed toward the door of the initiate barracks.

The initiates slowly began filing into the hallway, heading toward the chantry. Alistair joined the progression of young men, yawning as he trudged along. Not long after, Alistair heard the booming voice of Mervyn, the Knight-Lieutenant responsible for overseeing the Templar initiates, yelling at the others who were still in bed or not wholly dressed yet.

Others soon joined the flow of bodies, among them were Divine Mothers, lay sisters, and the handful of girl Templar initiates. Alistair always found it curious that having girls mixed in their ranks didn't cause more problems, but he supposed if even a quarter of the rumors about them were true, they were happy enough to ignore their male counterparts. Most of them were tall, stoic, and still of tongue when not shouting battle cries or taunts. Being around them felt to Alistair more like being around another man than, for instance, one of the female Divine initiates.

Entering through a side door, the throngs filed into the chantry's main hall and found places to sit along the well-worn benches that lined the room. Among the initiates and others who had not yet taken their vows, segregation by sex was enforced. Men sat on the left hand side of the main isle, the women on the right, while all were expected to sit in the latter half of the rows. Sworn brothers and sisters could mingle as they choose, but in general the higher they ranked the closer to the front they sat. Alistair squeezed onto one of the benches, setting himself down next to Malcolm, one of the boys who didn't mind his presence as much. Malcolm gave him a faint smile in greeting, and then turned his attention back to the altar. Another boy quickly sandwiched himself on the bench next to Alistair, giving him a shove with his hip in a vain attempt to make more room on the bench.

"Ow, watch it, Xander," Alistair chided the other boy.

"Shhh!" Malcolm hissed. Silence was strictly enforced during morning prayers, but Alistair's outburst was lost among the noise and bustle of the Chantry folk settling in.

"High and mighty arses should take up no more room than others, is what I say," Xander said, glaring at Alistair.

"Right," Alistair growled back, "That's why _yours_ has to have every last bloody inch of space, I take it?"

"Shut up!" Malcolm whispered nervously. His eyes darted nervously to the side door, where Knight-Lieutenant Mervyn had just entered the chapel. He surveyed his charges with narrowed eyes, seeing out any hint of defiance. Alistair bowed his head and folded his hands in his lap, trying hard not to be influenced by his seat mates.

It wasn't often that the Revered Mother herself addressed them, but since it was Confession Day she had ascended the pulpit. She gave the same sermon every six months when this day rolled around, and Alistair had lost count of how many times he had heard it. His mind drifted, trying to keep himself awake while pondering what he would confess to this time. What kind of truly awful things could he possibly do as a Chantry boy, anyway? Leave extra food on his supper plate when there were starving children in the Anderfels? Not wholly putting his heart and soul into pot scouring? Soaking the braids of that haughty Divine initiate who sat in front of him during Math and Ciphers in his inkwell? The last one could count, he supposed, were he ever to do such a thing. All he could confess to as things stood was being tempted to do so.

He wondered whether or not anyone ever admitted to the truly serious things they had done. He supposed some did, if they were consumed by guilt. Some of the people here seemed to thrive on guilt as if it could sustain them. Alistair had plenty of regrets and bitter bones to gnaw on, but on the occasions he felt he had wronged someone else he apologized for his transgressions and tried to forget about them. He certainly felt no need to bare his soul to the Maker over the issue. Didn't He already know about everything Alistair did anyway, never mind whether or not he was truly sorry? What good did it do, involving a nosy priest who probably turned around and tittered about the confessor's dirty secrets as soon as the day was over?

Mulling his thoughts, Alistair looked up and pretended to listen to the Revered Mother as she gave her sermon. He supposed confessing to the temptation about the braids and the ink would work. It was true enough, and pious people seemed to have sympathy for those who resisted temptation. After all, controlling his hands was the easy part. Sitting on them was not nearly so painful as biting his tongue. Though he supposed his hands could be said to be guilty of succumbing to a different temptation... but By the Maker, he couldn't admit to _that_! Not to one of the oh-so-holy-I've-never-felt-any-carnal-sensations-in-my-life-ever Divine Mothers! He turned his gaze to the floor, trying not to turn a noticeable shade of red as he banished the thought from his head. What else had he done that would count as confession worthy? Certainly there must be something far less _private_. He supposed his pride over his successes in mastering the basic Templar abilities could be dredged up for the slaughter. Not that he would stop being proud, of course, for as it turned out that was the one thing Alistair had excelled in since he had been sent to the Chantry. Throw in a healthy dose of being kinder to his fellow man and he supposed that would do for now. Until another six months passed and he would have to come up with a whole different list of publicly admittable transgressions.

With a murmured response from the congregation, the Revered Mother's rambling speech finally ended. The front half of the room began stirring and heading out of the rows in an orderly fashion, while the back half remained seated under the watchful eyes of their overseers. Permission to leave would be granted after the rest of the hall had cleared out, and only then would the unsworn be released to head to the dining hall for breakfast. Alistair always hated this part of the morning. It made him feel like a chained animal taunted by food held just out of reach. If he let himself think about it too long, it made him think of the Templars and lyrium and all sorts of other unpleasant associations.

Thankfully, Knight-Lieutenant Mervyn let them go before Alistair could get lost in such thoughts. Once they were released, all that mattered was getting to breakfast before the bacon was gone while avoiding being shoved into a wall by one of the other boys. A day of lectures and classes were much easier to stomach on the days that he managed to start his day with a good share of bacon.

.oOo.

* * *

The other initiate's sword hit Alistair's metal clad arm with a painful blow. He bit his lip, trying not to yelp in response.

"Ha! You're just like your mother; struck once and left crying," Felix derided him. Her steamy breath hung in the cold afternoon air. Female Templar initiates were expected to train right along side their male counterparts, and it had been Alistair's luck to be paired with one of them today. He hated fighting against girls, no matter how many times he was reminded that apostate female mages would certainly fight back just as viciously as male ones.

"Is that all you've got, Bastard?" she taunted him.

Femaleness be damned, Alistair thought as the insults fell from her lips. He ran at her, turning his shield to face front as he attempted to smash it into Felix's head. She twisted, avoiding him far too easily. She swung her sword around, hitting him from behind as he stumbled past her, balance lost from the missed blow.

"Oh, Alistair, Alistair," Felix laughed, mocking him. She spun, almost gracefully even in her dented training armor, and parried one of Alistair's more clumsy thrusts. "This right here is why bastards are shunned so. Anything good that comes from their father seems to always be negated by their baseborn blood. Shame, really, but I suppose it can't be helped."

Alistair saw red. Putting all his weight behind his shield, he used it as a battering ram as he charged into her. This time he hit Felice full on with the force of his shield and his shoulder, and his opponent reeled from the blow. He bashed her again, and again, and again, with his shield. With the last blow she toppled over onto the cold snowy ground, her armor clattering noisily.

"Finally!" she said, looking up at him with a wicked grin. "The Bastard's claws come out."

Alistair stepped on the woman's armored chest and held his sword at her throat.

"Yield!"

Felix twisted and rolled, throwing her weight against the leg Alistair still had set on the ground. With another loud clangor of metal, Alistair toppled over in a heap. Feeling like an overturned turtle, Alistair struggled to rise as something suddenly flipped him over onto his back. With a gasp he realized that the situation had reversed; he was now on the ground, and Felix was holding her sword to his throat.

"Yield yourself, Bastard!"

Alistair was so angry he almost spit in Felix's face. She had _cheated_. He had _won_. Bested her fair and square. And now _she_ was claiming victory over _him_!

It was then that he realized what had been tickling the edge of his hearing. Applause. Someone was clapping, slowly and rhythmically, and with each smack of the hands the false enthusiasm needled him.

"Bravo, Felice, stunning job!" It was Ser Tobias, their sparring master. Only the older men and women of the Chantry called Felix by her given name. Felix stepped off of Alistair at that point, saluting their superior with a gloved fist to the chest.

Alistair struggled to rise, still fuming. "She cheated! She should have yielded to me when I had her down!"

"Cheated?" Ser Tobias said, regarding Alistair with an over-exaggerated expression of surprise. "I suppose someone like you would know all about cheating. You were born to it, as it were."

The initiates assigned to Alistair and Felix's sparring group chuckled in unison at their mentor's joke. The only thing that stayed Alistair's hand at that moment was the knowledge that Ser Tobias could seriously hurt him, or even kill him, without remorse were Alistair to give into his anger. He would gladly scour a thousand thousand pots were that his only punishment for wiping the smarmy grin off the old, grizzled Templar's face.

"Regardless, lad," Tobias continued on, his tone sounding bored and dismissive. "Apostates do not follow rules. They do not "yield". And besides, she wasn't even unarmed when you demanded her surrender. What reason did Felice have to yield to you when she could still fight?"

His rage still bubbled inside him, but shame quickly began to take it's place. Alistair had been so angry over Felix's words he hadn't even noticed that he had failed to disarm her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I..." he protested feebly, but quickly gave up. He hung his head. "You're right. Felix wins the round." Stupid girl-with-a-boy's-name. Stupid Tobias. Stupid, stupid Alistair. He turned and left the center of the training yard.

"Xander! Crispin!" Ser Tobias bellowed behind him. "You're up next!"

With a hollow _clang_ , Alistair leaned against the outer wall surrounding the yard. He watched Xander and Crispin's sparring, unimpressed with what he saw. Crossing his arms and sighing, he turned his attention to the ground in front of him. Snow still covered the sides of the practice yard, thicker around the edges, while having been churned into a combination of snow and mud down the middle. The day was clear but cold, the wintery sun hanging low in the sky offering little warmth.

Alistair glanced up when heard footsteps approaching him, crunching in the snow. "Oh, hey, Malcolm." He turned his gaze back to the sparring.

"She did cheat, you know," Malcolm said as he came up alongside Alistair. He turned, also watching the other initiates fight as he spoke. "She's a bitch who likes to goad people."

"Yeah, and I fell for it," Alistair said bitterly. He kicked at the snow. "And I could have taken her too, if I'd just ignored her stupid mouth."

"Maybe," Malcolm replied. Alistair turned to look at his fellow initiate. Scrawny, awkward, and inept, Malcolm was the brunt of many a joke. Alistair supposed he was thankful that everyone only had one reason to hate him, none of which had to do with a personal failing. Not that it mattered any in the end, of course.

Malcolm sighed. "At least you can fight. I bet I don't even make it to becoming a real Templar."

"You'll get there, Mal," Alistair said with a half-hearted grin. "It's not like they're giving us our evaluation tomorrow or anything."

"I suppose you're right..." Malcolm trailed off, staring off into the distance. He was a bit of a mystery among the initiates. All anyone really knew about him was that he had grown up in the Chantry. He had been assigned to the Redcliffe Templar initiates before Alistair had arrived in the Chantry, and from that Alistair had assumed Malcolm was older than he was for all that he looked so young. "I don't know what I'll do, otherwise."

"They'd find a place for you. That's what they do around here after all, find homes for the misfits of the world." Alistair hoped the derision he felt at the thought didn't come through too strongly.

"Malcolm!" Ser Tobias bellowed from across the yard. "You're up! Get that bag of bones you call a body over here."

Startled, Malcolm jumped and spun around, almost falling over in the process. He ran to the center of the yard once he regained his balance. Alistair shook his head while he watched him go, kicking at the snow again. Even though it had been the right thing to do, he supposed that lying to the closest thing he had to a friend was confession worthy. Something that was supposedly right should not leave such a bad taste in ones mouth.

.oOo.

* * *

Evening prayers had been canceled on account of Confession Day, but all the Chantry initiates had been ushered into the main assembly hall anyway. There were four Confessional rooms, two on each side of the chantry, and each contained one of the Divine Mothers. Initiates were called in one at a time by the Sisters, working their way through until all had gone through the ceremony. Alistair sat in the middle of one of the rows, waiting, unsure if he wanted the benches behind him to clear out faster or slower.

Several Confession Days had passed since the last time he had seen Arl Eamon. The arl had come to visit him a handful of times since banishing him from Redcliffe Castle, and every time he had come it had been on Confession Day. All of the confessional rooms had a side door and could be entered directly from the monastery hallways, so the arl and the Revered Mother had used this setup to allow for he and Alistair to meet in private. He hated it when Arl Eamon decided to make such a visit, for it made an already uncomfortable ordeal positively agonizing. Their conversations had consisted of Alistair giving the most vague and superficial answers to his former guardian's questions. The most compelling reason to answer him at all was because the Revered Mother was always there, watching him with her hawk-like gaze. Alistair tried to focus on remembering the things he had chosen to confess while attempting to ignore the worrying knot in his stomach.

Soon enough, it was his turn. Alistair made his way to the most recently unoccupied side chamber, glancing around nervously as he opened the door. He let out an audible sigh of relief when he only saw one of the Divine Mothers, sitting in a tall armless chair opposite of what looked to be a very uncomfortable stool. Arl Eamon wasn't there. He felt as if he had managed to dodge a particularly nasty blow through a stroke of good fortune.

"Have a seat, Alistair." Mother Persephone gestured with her hand to the open seat. Alistair sat, smoothing out his robes nervously. "Confess your sins and transgressions to the Maker, and you shall find forgiveness."

Alistair shuffled his feet. "I, uh, well, probably the worst thing I've done..." He mentally cursed himself as his mind wandered back to that not-admittable thing. "I was tempted to soak one of the Divine initiate's braids in my inkwell during Thedas History class."

Mother Persephone smiled. "Is that all? And you resisted the temptation?"

"Well... yes." Wasn't that a good thing?

"Then that is an easy thing to forgive. Is that the worst of your transgressions?" Mother Persephone leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped together and resting on top of her politely crossed legs.

"I also lied to one of the other boys," Alistair continued. "I'm worried that I may have given him false hope."

"Sometimes, Alistair, false hope is what gives us the determination to hold on until we find the real thing."

He grimaced, but said nothing in response. Arguing with the any of the priests was the fastest road to pot scouring duty.

"Continue," Mother Persephone made an encouraging gesture with her hand.

Several moments passed as Alistair chewed his lip. "Pride," he continued. "When I do something right, I can't help but feel proud of what I've done. And Mother Hannah says that's a sin."

"Only if you use it as a justification to see yourself as better than others, my son."

Alistair grunted. "No fear of _that_ , I promise you, Mother." When she put it that way, he wondered just how many of the others were confessing their prideful sins today, of how they thought themselves better than him simply because they were not the castoff son of a king. Never mind that, he already knew the answer.

"I... I guess that's it, Your Reverence," Alistair wrung his hands, remembering the rage he had felt earlier this afternoon during melee training. Stupid as it was to have been goaded into rash action, he didn't feel guilty for being angry over the insulting words Felix and Ser Tobias had thrown at him. So he stayed silent.

"Very well." She held her hand over Alistair's bowed head and drew the sign of benediction in the air. "May your sins be forgiven, their corruption burned from this world under the light of our Maker's benediction."

"So let it be," Alistair responded. It was over. He was more thankful for that fact by far than he was for having been given the opportunity to confess his "sins".

Mother Persephone patted Alistair on the shoulder. "Wait here," she instructed. Alistair felt his stomach sink; this couldn't mean anything good. She stood and headed over to the tiny room's back door, calling out to someone as she cracked it open. Alistair wanted to jump up and run away as soon as he realized what was happening. The blow he thought he had dodged earlier had made a recovery and was swinging toward him yet again, this time its aim sadly true. It landed as soon as he saw Arl Eamon step into the room.

"Hello, Alistair." The arl attempted a smile, which Alistair returned with a scowl.

"Arl Eamon," he replied gruffly. Mother Persephone left the room, closing the door behind her. "How _kind_ of you to stop by and say hello, it's been awhile. I had thought perhaps you'd finally forgotten about the stable boy you cast off to become a pious mage assassin."

Eamon sighed. "This is the right thing for you, and for all of Ferelden. I had hoped that perhaps you had come to see that yourself, but clearly my hopes were misplaced."

"I'd say I'm sorry for that," Alistair replied indignantly, "but it's another six months until the next Confession Day. I'm sure I'd forget to confess how I lied to you so grievously, after so much time had passed. And we can't have that, now can we?"

"Alistair, please. I only wanted to check on you to see how your training was coming. You'll notice that I even requested a private audience with you this time, so that we could speak freely."

"Speak freely, you say?" Alistair fumed. "Fine. I hate it here. Everyone's either too high and mighty to speak to me or they see me as a pompous self-centered noble. The ceremonies and the prayers and the lessons are all well and good, but frightfully dull. The only thing I'm halfway decent at is the fighting, and _you_ could have taught me that, there was no reason for you to send me _here_. No reason for it _at all_!" He screamed the last words, his anger flaring dangerously now that it had found an acceptable target. "No one in Redcliffe wanted anything to do with me, and no one here does either. But I'd rather be a nobody who's ignored than a somebody who can be mocked for simply existing. I had a place in the castle, it may not have been much but it was a place. A _home_. Here, I'm expected to be a member of a group that's made up of people who either despise or resent me. Even if I did belong here, which I don't, they make it impossible for me to feel like I deserve anything more than to be thrown into Lake Calenhad while wearing full armor."

"Alistair, I..."

"No!" he continued ranting. "I don't want to hear another word. You've made it clear that I'm no longer welcome in Redcliffe. That my blood requires I be locked away, like a common criminal, for my own good and the good of everyone. We have nothing more to say to each other." With that, Alistair spun on his heel and stormed out of the room. He ignored the heads that snapped in his direction as he stomped through the chantry and out the door leading to the Templar barracks. They could all die horrible deaths and rot in the sun until not even the ravens would touch them for all he cared. The Sisters had preached to him about not judging others. But when everyone wrote him off one way or another just for who he was, why should he be compelled to extend them such a kindness in return? It was all so monstrously _unfair_.

He had thought to head to his bed in order to rest while avoiding the others, but he was afraid that the room would not be as empty as he would have liked. Instead he turned toward the armory. He wanted to hit something, someone, anything. A training dummy would have to do. A training dummy wouldn't accuse him of murder, nor would it sentence him to a lifetime of kitchen duty. He could even give a training dummy a name, and no one would be the wiser. It was a horrible thought, but Alistair no longer cared. Better that his rage destroy a straw-and-wood man rather than eating him alive from the inside.

.oOo.

* * *

Dinner on Confession Day was not the structured event it was most days. Since there was not a surging hungry horde of people released from evening prayers simultaneously, the dining hall served food over the course of several hours. Stews and mashed vegetables were common, since they could sit over the fire for hours being kept warm. Alistair placed his dirty bowl in a stack along with the other dirty dishes waiting to be carried off to the kitchens. He had been one of the last to eat, thanks to his impromptu "training" session, and the stew had been a particularly soggy form of mush. It had been worth it in the end, so bland and unappetizing stew was a small price to pay. His muscles burned from the effort, but his mind had calmed and his rage had been vented. He was even relaxed enough to try some of the Templar mental discipline techniques he had learned as he walked. The simplest ones involved repeating segments of the Chant of Light until no other thought existed in his conscious mind, and were easy enough to perform while walking the familiar route through the abbey.

Upon entering the initiate's barracks, Alistair was greeted by a fluffy blow to the head and peels of laughter. "Gotcha!" one of the boys shouted. Others began pelting him with pillows, shouting and snickering. So much had happened that day that Alistair had completely forgotten about the traditional post-Confession pillow fights. On Confession Day it was an unwritten tradition that the boys would be allowed to carry on without interference by their superiors. These fights often turned into all-out battles, epic in their pillowy proportion. Alistair was sore and tired, but he was thankful yet again he'd worked out his rage before coming back to the dormitory. Now he could laugh rather than wanting to punch someone in the face as he grabbed a nearby pillow and struck back at his oppressors.

A lot of the natural boundaries and cliques that tended to crop up within any group of young people faded away or at least blurred during these contests. Alliances would be made, enemies declared, and the declarations subsequently forgotten when a new enemy arose. Some of the smaller initiates took to climbing to the top of the bunk beds and leaping across the gaps between the bunks, while others lie in wait behind walls cobbled together from the initiates' chests of belongings. It was only a matter of time before the fighting spilled from the barracks into the hallways and through the monastery hallways. Alistair found himself allied with three other boys, Crispin, Malcolm, and Alfred, who were chasing five other boys who had banded together to torment them. They snuck as carefully as they could through the hallways, knowing that even with the forgiving of normal restrictions being caught out of bed past Last Bells was grounds for punishment. Charging ahead, they would duck inside empty or unused rooms when they heard someone coming, or sometimes they hid behind the looming statuary, leaping out for the attack when their opponents ran past after the coast was clear. One particularly impressive move was pulled off by Hugo, one of the boys in the other group. He climbed the wide staircase leading up from one of the larger monastery halls and managed to slide down its wide polished stone banister, brandishing his pillow high in the air and smacking Crispin upside the head as he glided down.

Suddenly they heard the large set of double doors at the opposite end of the hall creak open. They froze for a panicked moment before bolting up the stone steps. Alistair tried contain his alarm as he realized they had made their way into area of the Chantry which housed the private apartments of the ranking Divine and Templars. He could hear voices behind them; whoever had come through the doors downstairs was coming their way. Glancing around, he noticed that one of the chamber doors was cracked open, and the room beyond appeared darkened.

"Quick! In here!" Alistair hissed, waving to his companions. . The three other boys quickly followed Alistair's lead, ducking into the empty bedroom. It was then that he realized, during their frenzied escape they had been separated from their renegade accomplices He shut the thick wooden door behind them, which closed with a disturbingly loud thumping noise _._

Alistair struggled to regain his breath while not sounding like a wheezing bellows at the same time. Moonlight filtered into the room through its one slitted window high up on the outer wall, and it was hard to see anything at all until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Not that there was much to see, beyond the typical things one would expect to find in a private bedroom. A four-poster bed, several dressers and an armoire, a mirror... and a shield, hanging on the far wall. It was all Alistair could do not to cry out at the sight. The shield was painted with the sun-symbol of the Templars, crossed with a pair of swords. The Knight-Commander's shield. He yanked on the sleeve of Malcolm's robe and pointed. Malcolm's eyes grew wide, but thankfully he did not cry out..

The voices out in the hallway seemed to be getting closer. Alistair prayed fervently that it was some random Divine Mother or Knight-Lieutenant, and that this was not some kind of cosmic retribution for his rash explosion at the arl earlier. "Quick!" Alfred whispered. "Hide!"

There were only so many places for four not-so-small young men to hide in the room. Crispin dove under the bed, while Alfred squeezed down between two of the large dressers. Malcolm and Alistair stared at one another, panicking more than a little.

The handle of the door turned with a loud _creeeek_.

In their panic, the two remaining boys fell to the floor, hoping that they would not be seen cowering behind the far side of the bed. Light flooded the room, accompanied by oddly high-pitched giggling. That sure didn't sound like the Knight-Commander Harrith Alistair knew. Peering through the dusty underside of the bed, he could see two pairs of unsteady feet enter the room.

Malcolm shivered, cowering on the floor. An involuntary squeak escaped him, and Alistair was consumed with a sense of dread.

"Who's there?" the man's voice called out. Slurred though his speech was, it was still clearly Knight-Commander Harrith who spoke. "Show yourself!" The giggling had stopped. None of them moved from the shadows.

Ser Harrith grabbed the torch from the sconce just outside his bedroom door. He walked purposefully into the room. The smell of ale preceded him.

Malcolm panicked. "Please, Knight-Commander, ser, we're sorry!"

"Malcolm!" Alistair yelled. "What are you _doing_?"

"OUT!" Ser Harrith bellowed. "All of you, get out of here now, and we shall not speak of this in the morning."

No one had to tell them twice. The four boys bolted for the door, but not before Alistair caught the eye of the now not-giggling woman. It was one of the Divine initiates. He recognized her as being from one of his classes, but for all that he could not remember her name. It was probably better that way.

The four initiates bolted through the hallway, down the stairs, and along the winding passageways that lead back to the barracks. As they sped around one of the corners, Alistair collided headlong with a wall of flesh and muscle.

"Well, well, well... guess our search is over. And so quickly too! Shame, really." Ricard, now Ser Ricard, was the bane of Alistair's existence in the Chantry. Which was an impressive feat if one thought about it, given the way he was treated by the average person there. He was flanked by Simon, Alistair's morning nuisance and Ricard's shadow. Or had been, before Ricard had advanced to become a full Templar.

"What do you want, Ricard?" Alistair demanded, scowling. He heard Malcolm, Alfred, and Crispin simultaneously bolt away down the hall, and he cursed their cowardice silently in his head. Ricard ignored them.

"That's _Ser_ Ricard, Bastard. I hear Daddy was here earlier today, and not long after he arrived someone ran off in a peevish fit." He grinned wickedly, watching Alistair closely.

Alistair narrowed his eyes, trying to look more angry than afraid. "My father is dead," he snapped.

"Someone notify King Cailan!" Simon laughed. "The walking dead rule in Redcliffe!"

"So what did Daddy have to say?" Ricard continued. "Did he refuse to speak to the Knight-Commander for you over some perceived offense to your blue-blooded honor? Or perhaps he refused to bring you your favorite trinket from home? Oh, wait, I know what it was! I bet he refused to let you come back with him to the castle. Was that it, Bastard?"

Alistair turned, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching his fists hard enough that his nails dug into his palms. He turned away from Ricard and began walking back toward the dormitory. As much as he wanted to fight back, he also knew that was exactly what Ricard wanted. Giving it to him would only get him in more trouble. Before he even realized what was happening however, he felt someone grab his arm and forcefully turn him back to face the older boys. "Ser was speaking to you, Bastard!" Simon sneered.

"That's nice. I, however, am done speaking to him," Alistair replied, desperately trying to keep his temper from flaring out of control.

Alistair's head reeled back as pain laced through his face. Simon had punched him with his free hand, while keeping an iron grip on Alistair's arm with his other. Squirming violently, he tried to escape but failed miserably. "You don't get to decide when your betters are done speaking to you!" Simon barked.

Alistair desperately tried to get away from Simon and Ricard, but the older boys were far too intent on continuing the fight they had clearly come here to find. He had gotten in enough trouble for fighting when Ricard had merely been an initiate, and he knew things would go even more poorly for him were he to be accused of attacking a fully fledged Templar.

"So what was it, Bastard?" Ricard taunted. "Or maybe - hey Simon, you know what? I heard the most ridiculous rumor the other day. Tell me if you've heard this one." Simon had managed to grab a hold of both of Alistair's arms, pinning them behind his back. Ricard leaned down, putting himself nose to nose with Alistair. "I heard that maybe, just maybe he ain't the arl's get at all." He grinned wickedly. Alistair had tried to keep his face hard, but something in his continence must have betrayed him.

"Oh?" Simon replied, tugging on Alistair's arms. He had crossed them behind Alistair's back, so he could not squirm or turn away from Ricard's heinously amused eyes. "Why? What'd you hear?" His tone made it painfully obvious that he knew exactly what Ricard was going to say.

Ricard grinned, his mouth pulled into a thin line. "I heard, once upon a time in a land not so far away, a great king came to visit Redcliffe Castle. He was _so_ great, in fact, that he felt the need to enforce his greatness on a hapless serving girl, who was later kicked out of Redcliffe on her arse after her little princeling was born."

"Why does it matter?" Alistair screamed. "Why do you care so bloody much?"

"Because _you_ care, Bastard. You strut around here like you own the place, keeping to your nose in the air as if to avoid the corrupting influence of those beneath you. You laugh at us all with your stupid japes and comments, because we _amuse_ you so."

"I do _not_!"

"You _do_ ," Ricard exclaimed. "And since they're sending me to be stationed in Denerim tomorrow, someone needs to beat a lesson into you before I go."

Alistair writhed and twisted, frantically trying to escape Simon's painful grasp. It made little difference, other than causing his arms to twist more painfully behind his back. Simon had the advantage of at least two years and a foot in height over Alistair. Ricard pummeled him, fists flying, punching him in the face and the gut and wherever else he could reach. Alistair cried out in pain, but each time he did Simon kneed him in the back. "Pipe down and take your beating, Bastard!" he hissed. Alistair tried to kick him, but it was all he could do to keep from losing his balance.

"What in the name of Andraste's holy pyre is going on here?"

Knight-Lieutenant Mervyn's voice had never sounded so wonderful to Alistair's ears. Simon immediately dropped Alistair's arms and he collapsed to the floor. His tormentors turned and tried to flee down the hallway.

"Quickly!" Mervyn bellowed. "Fetch Ser Ricard and Initiate Simon and bring them to my office." Two other Templars, whom Alistair had not even seen arrive, rushed past him to try and apprehend the two troublemakers. Mervyn offered a gauntleted hand to Alistair, helping him get to back on his feet.

"Are you alright, lad?" Mervyn asked, not unkindly.

"I..." Alistair stuttered. His nose was bleeding, possibly broken, and he was pretty sure he had bitten his tongue. The skin around his eyes already felt like it was swelling up, and blood streaks marred the front of his robe. He hoped he wouldn't get in trouble for that. "I'm not sure. I think so." He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and thankfully his teeth still all seemed to be in tact.

"You're a frightful mess. What happened here?"

"I was, I mean we were... They were looking for us, for me! And I didn't do _anything_ to them!" Alistair dashed at his eyes furiously, wincing in pain as he did so. How could he be so weak as to break into tears in front of the Knight-Lieutenant?

"Calm down, now. It's alright. I was afraid Ricard would come looking for you... but why were you out of bed past curfew?"

"We, uh, we... you know, well, the pillow fight just got completely out of hand, and..." Alistair paused at the thought of being caught in the Knight Commander's bedchamber. Best not to mention _that_ , for sure. "Well, we got scared and were running back before anyone missed us. And I ran into Ricard. Literally. Smashed my nose pretty good, though I think he did a better job at it with his fists than his chest." Alistair tried to form a smile, but the Knight-Lieutenant didn't seem very amused.

Mervyn sighed. "I won't demand that you rat out your friends, but you know I can't ignore you breaking curfew, Alistair. I hereby assign you one day of kitchen duty, starting at First Bells tomorrow." Alistair hung his head. He supposed he was getting off easy. Most of the time anyone was caught fighting, all of the parties involved were sentenced to the same punishment, regardless of circumstances. But that didn't make the thought of a day scrubbing pots and skinning vegetables sound any more appealing.

"Yes, ser. Thank you ser," Alistair replied demurely.

"Report to the barracks and change out of that filthy robe," Mervyn commanded. "I will send for Sister Persephone to attend to your injuries."

"Yes, ser." Alistair saluted him, both arms crossing his chest and bowing slightly. He hurried off, knowing that if he did not follow Mervyn's order immediately it would only go worse for him. Although, Alistair supposed, worse was a very relative term when one already felt like they had been pushed into a giant pit trap with no believable hope of rescue.

The pillow fights had thankfully died down, though some boys were still awake and stared openly at Alistair as he made his way to his bed. Alistair looked up at his bunk, and decided that he did not want to have to climb back down once Mother Persephone arrived. He found his chest of belongings, wedged between several others as part of a pillow fight fortification, and moved it back to its proper place. Changing out of his bloodstained robe, he put on a night shift and then sat down on top of the closed chest. It was only then, when he glanced around the darkened room and saw that the surrounding beds were either empty or contained someone sound asleep, that he allowed his emotions to overtake him.

Everything about being in the Chantry, from the predestined path he found himself on to the way people treated him; it was all so terribly unfair. He had never been given a choice in the matter, yet everyone assumed that he should be content with his place. He didn't harbor fantasies about being a prince, not anymore, not since it had been announced that King Maric had been lost at sea. Prince Cailan had ascended to the throne, and he honestly felt relieved that his fate was not that of his half-brother. But was this much better? He certainly didn't want to become a Templar either, forever chained to the Chantry's mercy and lyrium supply. Ridding the world of blood mages and maleficarum was a noble calling he supposed, but not the one he would have chosen. Given the choice, he would have... well he wasn't quite sure just what he would have done. But even if it had been something like running off to sea as a lowly cabin boy, or even just continuing to muck stables and do grunt work around a lord's estate, at least it would have been his choice. Not a choice made for him by Arl Eamon and not made for sake of removing his supposedly threatening self from the public eye.

Soon enough, Mother Persephone arrived. She washed Alistair's open gashes, applied bandages and poultices to his wounds where she could, and made him drink some vile concoction that would supposedly help him sleep. Alistair had little time to contemplate the effectiveness of the potion before drifting off into unconsciousness.

He awoke groggily the next morning to a violent jolt of the bed. Simon's angry kick meant that it was already six hours after midnight, and he was late for kitchen duty.

"Andraste's ass..." Alistair cursed. It was time to wake and face another day. A day where the best Alistair could hope for was the kitchen staff taking pity on him by not having saved their grungiest pots and dishes for him. Such hope was futile however. They knew that the return of Redcliffe's most devoted Templar initiate was inevitable.

.oOo.

  



	6. Keeping Vigil: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: From this point forward, the story has been officially raised to Threat Level "M" for "more sexings"

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Nathaniel ~

* * *

Keeping up this level of focus was never easy. Every muscle, every movement, every breath needed to be carefully controlled. It never ceased to amaze Nathaniel just how well the average deer could hear the slightest noises. He had been tracking the buck for most of the afternoon, and the last thing he wanted to do was stumble or let out some awkward noise and alert the prey to his presence. Some may have thought a Howe should be more like a hulking bear, but Nathaniel knew that right now what he needed was the grace of a mountain cat. Swift yet silent, lithe and deadly.

His bow made a faint sound as he pulled it taut, but luckily, the deer didn't seem to notice. Seemingly unaware of his presence, it kept chewing on whatever plant it had found lurking in the underbrush. Staring down the long shaft, Nathaniel aimed at the animal's chest just beneath its shoulder. The shot lined up, he let fly the arrow. The deer jerked its head up at the sound, but by then it was too late, the arrow had found its mark. Crashing through the trees, the doomed buck bolted blindly away from the deer path, leaving a trail that even a child could follow with ease. Any need for subterfuge had vanished. Nate hurried through the brush, heedless of the noise he was making. It wasn't long before he saw the stag collapse into a heap, the arrow's work finally complete. Pulling his knife from his belt, Nathaniel slit the beast's throat for good measure.

After dressing the deer for transport, Nate tied a rope around its neck and proceeded to drag it through the forest. His destination was not far, but felt infinitely further now that he was dragging along so much weight. Gradually, he made his way back to the deer path, and slowly down the winding trail. A half an hour of backbreaking labor later, the carcass was hauled as far as the hidden grotto he had claimed as his own. At least, he supposed that "grotto" was the right term for it. It was more of an overhang of rock than a true cave, but when Nathaniel had found this place he had immediately claimed it as his own. It went deep, and had plenty of rocky protrusions to make it useful as a storage place, and the ledge above went out far enough that a bit of canvas made a suitable shelter for waiting out bad weather. He had even spent the night under this setup several times, sleeping in an old musty bedroll he had stolen from the supplies kept for Father's soldiers.

Adjacent to the grotto sat an old rolled up deerskin that had been fitted with two lengths of rope. Nathaniel untied the knots holding the bundle together, and laid the hide flat on the ground. Situating the buck in the middle, he then grabbed both ropes and continued dragging him down the trail. From here on the trail was wider. Nathaniel had worked to keep it clear as to ensure that he would always have easy access to his base camp. Between the reduced undergrowth and the rope-and-old-hide contraption, he made much better time on his way back to Vigil's Keep.

The first thing he noticed as he came within sight of the keep's outer wall was that they had flanked the gate with two long dark blue banners bearing the Cousland crest. Father always honored his guests in such a way, though he made sure that the bear of Amaranthine flew from all the towers to balance out the welcome. Nate cursed under his breath. Had the Couslands arrived already? They were early if so, for most had not expected them to arrive until later in the week. He pressed on, and as he passed into the courtyard his suspicions were confirmed. The yard buzzed with activity. Wagons were being unloaded by people he did not recognize, mixed with various guards and serving folk that he did. He hurried past the main stairs leading into the keep itself, hoping to avoid his father long enough to get his prize around the corner and through the side kitchen entrance.

"Ah, I see my wayward son has returned to us. A pity he wasn't here earlier to great you properly, Bryce."

Nathaniel froze in his tracks. Father. Where had he come from? He supposed it didn't really matter.

"I had no idea they would be arriving so early," Nathaniel explained as he turned around. Father looked down his impressive nose at him, while his companion gave him a friendly smile.

"Do not trouble yourself over it, young Nathaniel." Bryce Cousland's open and warm nature always stood out in stark contrast to Father's cold and judging glares.

"It's good to see you again, Teyrn Cousland," Nathaniel smiled politely. Father would be even more cross with him were he to forget his manners.

"You appear to have been busy." Bryce gestured at Nathaniel's bundle. "Good hunting this time of year?"

"Not as good as the fall, but not bad, Your Grace." Nathaniel moved the hide back from where it covered the deer. "He's not all that big, only has six points. But Cookie never turns away extra meat, especially now with guests in residence."

Bryce surveyed the dead animal and nodded approval. "Certainly. I'm sure you make your father proud."

"Yes," Rendon replied, his voice laced with rancor. "So very proud that he spends his days covered in dirt and blood, slinking around the forest like a common poacher."

Nate scowled, but said nothing in response. Father's disapproval was nothing new to him, but that certainly didn't lessen its sting.

"Don't be silly. The boy can't poach off of your own lands," Bryce said with a chuckle.

"That is no reason to encourage him," Rendon replied darkly. "He has other responsibilities, which he shirks constantly to play in the woods like a child." A faint smile crossed Father's face. "Though I suppose I should expect no less than indulgence from the man who sired your spitfire of a daughter."

"Oh come off it now, Rendon." Bryce put his hands on his hips as he spoke, hooking his thumbs under his belt. "Elisara's grown up quite a bit since you last saw her. You'll see."

"So she did accompany you after all!" Nathaniel's face lit up at the news. "Your original missive said that it would be you and your son coming to the Landsmeet this year."

"When Ellie found out that Fergus's wife and son had decided to come along, she simply refused to be left out. Then my own wife invited herself along, and thus the entire Cousland clan made the trip." Bryce clapped Nathaniel on the shoulder. "Go get yourself cleaned up, lad. I'll let Ellie know that we found you."

"She was asking about me?" Maker's Breath, that was... unexpected.

"Your jaw seems to have come loose, Son. Close it, lest you start catching flies." Father did always have a way of drawing the joy out of the moment.

"Yes, Father."

Rendon barked an order to a page standing nearby. "See that this carcass is taken to the kitchens."

"I can handle it, Fa..."

"No," Rendon cut him off sharply. "You will see yourself cleaned up, and then you will present in your mother's old sitting room to greet the rest of our guests."

Nate sighed and bowed his head slightly. "Yes, Father." Wonderful. It seemed that Father had given the use of Mother's old chambers over to the teyrns. It was the one part of the Vigil that he avoided as stoutly as a Chantry sister would avoid a whorehouse. His stomach twisted itself into a knot.

"Well, why are you still standing here?"

Nathaniel took off like a shot, running up the main stairway into the keep.

"You don't have to be so hard on the boy, you know." Nate couldn't help but smile at that. Bryce Cousland, father of one of the most infamous daughters of the Bannorn, trying to give his father parenting tips. Father may not be perfect, but at least he made attempts at discipline.

Not that he was complaining too loudly, of course. Elisara wouldn't be the woman she had become if Bryce had tried to mold her into something other than what she was. Did a woman count as a woman when they were sixteen? Even if he thought they did, he had a feeling people like his father and Teyrn Cousland thought differently, especially in Elisara's case. He wished he could ask their younger selves the same question and compare their answers. Now _that_ would be enlightening.

.oOo.

* * *

It was a thick, solid door, wholly alike to all the rest of the doors in the Vigil. Nothing to set it apart from any other, save the memories attached to it. The high pitched squeal of a child filtered through the wooden beams, and it was not hard to imagine that it was a much younger Thomas playing with his favorite toys while Delilah and her treasured Miss Maggie playfully tormented him. Thomas would hate him for that thought, for at fifteen he did not like to be reminded that even he came from humbler beginnings.

An elf woman answered his knock. "Greetings, ser." She turned her head. "Your Grace, the arl's eldest is here to see you."

"See him in." Teyrna Eleanor Cousland sounded nothing like Mother, and for that Nathaniel was grateful.

Against his will, Nathaniel surveyed the room. The old draperies and bedclothes had been removed, replacing the lighter pastels she had once preferred with ones in dark green and blue. Teyrna Cousland stood as he entered the room, while the younger woman collected the child who had been playing on the floor.

"Nathaniel," the teyrna greeted him warmly. "How good it is to see you again." Nathaniel bowed slightly as she approached.

"Indeed!" the other woman agreed. "It has been far too long." The last time Nathaniel had seen Fergus Cousland's wife was King Cailan and Queen Anora's wedding. Unbidden memories of the royal wedding filled his head; Father forcing him to attend every possible moment of that disjointed and aimless Landsmeet, the freedoms Thomas had been granted simply because he was not expected to be at Father's side, coupled with the fact that every free moment he had was promptly sapped away escorting Marion wherever she pleased...

"Teyrna Cousland, Lady Oriana," Nathaniel forced himself back to the present. "I apologize for not being here when you arrived. It is good to see you both, and the newest Cousland as well," He smiled at the small boy situated on his mother's hip. "Oren, yes?"

"Yes, Oren," Oriana replied. "Named after his great-grandfather, Maker rest his soul."

"But the trifecta of beautiful Cousland women is not yet complete." He glanced sidelong at Eleanor as he spoke. "Where is Elisara?"

Eleanor laughed a short laugh. "You could have just asked without the needless flattery, lad. Actually, you just missed her. She claimed to be heading to the training yard, but I can't help wonder if she wasn't headed out to look for you..." She gave him a mysterious grin. "Or perhaps she was simply looking to avoid your brother."

Nathaniel chuckled. News of Thomas's infatuation with Elisara had even reached her own mother's ears.

At that very moment, the chamber door swung open and a whirlwind stomped inside. "Mother! I can't find my good boots! How can I..." She paused, her face blanching as she caught site of Nathaniel. "Oh, my apologies Ser Nathaniel." Reaching for skirts she was not currently wearing, Elisara fumbled awkwardly for a moment. "I had not known you were here."

"Do not trouble yourself, my lady." He took her hand and kissed it lightly. "But tell me, was I knighted in my sleep? I am no ser, not yet anyway."

"Your father _still_ refuses to allow your knighting?" Elisara replied, clearly affronted. "What possible reason could he have?"

"He claims my skill with a blade isn't yet good enough. If I truly wish to be a knight, I'd set aside my bow and stick to sword play." He tried not to roll his eyes at the thought, what with the teyrna watching and all.

"There's no reason why you can't practice both," Elisara argued.

"Father says that archery as a skill belongs to women and commoners," he said with a sneer. "No offense intended to present company, of course."

"None taken," Teyrna Cousland said, clearly amused. "Your father always has been the opinionated type."

"That's putting it lightly, Your Grace." He couldn't help chuckling a little.

"He did tell me that he contacted one of his cousins who lives in the Free Marches, asking if there was a place there for me to squire for someone in his service. But we have yet to hear back from him."

Elisara's face lightened. "Well there you go! How exciting for you! If your cousin agrees to have you, of course. Your father can hardly say no, once your training is over."

"It never fails to amaze me what my father will refuse... but I'll certainly have a stronger case if I have actual squiring time to my name." Nathaniel couldn't shake the feeling that Father was only agreeing to squire him so that he would not have to listen to his arguments for however long he was gone. His father never seemed to run dry of excuses as to why Nate's best was never good enough. "Honestly I'm surprised he suggested it. He's always told me in the past to spend more time with our master-of-arms..."

Their conversation was interrupted by a solid-sounding _thud_ from near Mother's old armoire. Oren Cousland had fallen smack on his swaddled bottom, a boot the size of his torso in his grasp between his chubby legs. "Go BOOM!" he proclaimed as he shook the boot, hitting its heel on the stone floor. He giggled like this was the funniest thing he had ever done in his young life.

"I think Oren found your boots for you, Ellie," Oriana announced. Nate hadn't even realized that she had returned him to the floor. As soon as Oriana picked her son back up again, he began bawling and reaching for the boot. She held him close and attempted to comfort him.

"One of my boots, anyway!" Elisara headed over to where Oren had been playing. "Ah hah! Here it is." She pulled her second boot out from between the armoire and a nearby plant stand, and headed over to a nearby couch to put them on. "Sorry Oren," she called to her nephew, "I didn't mean to take your toy away."

"He'll be alright... here, look Oren! It's Mr. Knighty Pants!" Oriana dangled a rag doll in front of Oren, which he grabbed greedily. He still blubbered a bit, but the doll at least calmed him some.

Nate couldn't help but laugh. "Mr. Knighty Pants? How cute."

"Fergus named him," Elisara explained, in a tone which made it clear that should explain everything. "Well! Did you want to get a head start on that squiring, Nate? I haven't practiced yet today, and I could certainly use a new sparring partner. Keeps me on my toes."

"I would be honored, my lady." He gave her one of his more dramatic bows. She rolled her eyes in response.

"Go ahead, Ellie," Teyrna Cousland said. "Just be sure to be cleaned up and ready for supper before sunset."

"Yes, Mother."

"And your leathers do not count as proper dinner attire."

"I _know_ , Mother." Elisara ran her hand through her hair in frustration

Teyrna Cousland dismissed her daughter with a wave of her hand. The pair turned and headed out the door, closing it as they left. Nate turned away quickly, before he blubbered something stupid about his own mother.

"Finally!" Elisara proclaimed. "I've been dying to hit something ever since we got here... uh, just to let off steam from being cooped up all day in that beast of a carriage. No reflection on your hospitality, of course." She smiled at him. Did all girls have such pretty smiles? He hadn't ever noticed before. "So, the training yard is this way, yes?" She pointed down one of the corridors.

"Yes... but I was thinking." Dare he be so bold? "Would you object to a more private session?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. Her brows stood out on her face even more when compared to the unnaturally red shade of her hair. "Private, you say? How... interesting. How do you suggest we go about doing that?"

"There's a place in the woods that I've…It's mine and private. It wouldn't work so well for swords, but since I see you're still carrying your daggers..." He glanced at her belt, confirming that which he thought he had spied earlier. "...that should not be a problem."

"Sharpened them just this morning!" She pulled one of her blades from its sheath and twirled it around in her palm. "Sadly, over the past couple weeks I've had far more time to practice that little move instead of anything useful."

"We shall definitely remedy that, my lady. I know many useful moves, among other, more showy ones..." Oh Maker, did that just come out the way he thought it did?

Her laugh confirmed his fears. "I shall believe it when I see it, ser."

"Please don't call me that."

She simply grinned a wicked grin back at him as she pushed open the door into the main hall. There was a cat-like quality to her eyes; curious and hungry, yet playful, and almost unnaturally green. Though, he supposed, that could be due to them contrasting with her hair. The first time he had seen her with her hair dyed so outrageously had been at King Cailan's wedding. Marian had pointed her out in a crowd and tittered about it. Nathaniel on the other hand thought it suited her perfectly, and was glad she had kept it up since.

Blast it all, why did his thoughts always seem to wander back to memories of Marian whenever Elisara was around? Even though his thoughts stayed firmly in his head, he felt awkward about it none the less.

"So, do you think they'll let us just waltz out of here without an escort?" Elisara asked. "Or are we just not going to mention to anyone where we're going, and show up at dinner like nothing happened?"

"A little of both, actually," Nathaniel replied. "I've found that the guards are much less likely to bar me from doing things if I simply walk around like I own the place. It's when I start trying to become unnoticed that I actually attract more attention."

"Yes, I can see where that could be effective..." Elisara mused. "Wouldn't work for me though. I have... a bit of a reputation around Highever."

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Err, yes. I suppose that would be... problematic."

It would be extremely rude for Nathaniel to point out that her "reputation" far exceeded the boundaries of Highever proper. Never mind that he actually _liked_ Elisara, regardless of what the rumor mill said about her. Or Father. Father's dislike of her actually pleased him on some level, and made the stories about her all the more interesting. Now that Marian was gone... He would have never wished her dead, let alone at the hands of common bandits. Nevertheless, she was gone, and he was no longer betrothed. But all that seemed to matter little. The closest Father had ever come to discussing a match between Cousland and Howe however was his occasional mocking reference to Thomas's ridiculous fascination with Elisara.

"I ran into your little brother, earlier," Apparently just thinking about Thomas was enough to bring his name up in conversation.

"Did you?" One side of his mouth turned to a sardonic grin. As they approached, one of the guards standing nearby saluted him before moving to open the outer keep door. Nathaniel nodded in appreciation, then addressed Elisara again. "And to think, your boots don't even look like they've been soaked in drool."

She laughed. "That's only because I wasn't wearing these boots. I swear, as soon as he lays eyes on me his brain shuts down and his tongue takes over! At least I tell myself it's his tongue. It wouldn't be ladylike of me to think otherwise." Her smirk was nothing if not unladylike.

Now it was Nate's turn to laugh. "I'm glad you see him for what he is."

"A foolish boy who drinks way too much and then goes to his room to fantasize about me?"

"Uh, well," Nate stammered. "I can agree with you about the drinking part anyway. The fantasizing, that I prefer not to think about!"

"Did you know he was already drunk when we arrived? Maker, it takes a lot of ale to be that besotted by noon."

"You have to understand." Nathaniel knew he should probably at least put up a token defense for his brother. "Thomas rarely indulges in anything less than rotgut whiskey. Being drunk while still being able to function when called upon is his one skill in life. We're loathe to take it away from him." So much for that idea.

Both of them were laughing as they passed, unhindered, under the outer gate of the Vigil.

.oOo.

* * *

It wasn't every day that Nathaniel found himself in the presence of one who appreciated and respected the wilds as much as he did. Even rarer that she be a woman.

She hadn't complained, not once, during the entire trek out to the grotto. He had been expecting at least a few grievances to be aired, for the Elisara he knew was quite vocal when things did not go the way she wanted them to. Much to his surprise, it seemed that hills, rocks, mud, and even a chance encounter with positively gigantic black-and-yellow spider and its even more gigantic web, would not slow her down. In fact, they appeared to invigorate her. He told her of the hunting he had done in these woods, the wildlife he had seen, and some of the plants he knew had beneficial properties. She spoke of what she knew of the lands around Highever, but knew little of hunting and woods craft herself. Her mother had seen to it that she received archery lessons, but she was never granted the chance to put those skills to use beyond the confines of target practice.

He had spoken with Elisara many times over the years, for their families often traveled together when heading to Denerim for the Landsmeet. That was why the Couslands were here now in fact, for two days hence the Howe entourage would be joining up with them to make the rest of the journey. At some point during their hike, Nathaniel realized that before today he had never been granted the opportunity to spend time with Elisara while not under either his father's or her mother's watchful eye. He could get used to such conversations with her, even beyond the thrill of sneaking off into the woods with a beautiful woman.

It galled him that such a woman who should be so attainable was yet so far out of reach. Teyrn Cousland seemed in no hurry to marry her off so Father would have had to push for a match between them, and Father was not about to just give him anything he wanted without a struggle. Although, if he was indeed going to be sent to the Free Marches to squire, perhaps Father would be more receptive to the idea after he returned home. Certainly he could not object on political grounds. Father's dislike of Elisara was totally based around about her personally, coupled with resentment against how she had been raised. He was fairly confident that was why he had been betrothed to Marion in the first place, to put a polite face on the reason why Father couldn't marry his heir to his friend's daughter. But the past was the past. In the here and now, Nathaniel was sparring with an alluring woman of noble birth who could clearly best him if he let his guard down at all. He couldn't imagine a better match for a man of his station, Father's opinions be damned.

She was circling him now, staring him down, looking for an opening. Their friendly competition had been going on for some time now, but Elisara showed no sign of tiring. Spotting some bit of his defenses give way, Elisara lunged at him, stabbing him in the gut with her fur-wrapped blade. He twisted, slashing her across the back, or would have if his blade hadn't been similarly wrapped. Suddenly, her foot lashed out at him, attempting to take him out at the knees. With an awkward sidestep, he missed the brunt of the blow but the whole maneuver had set him off balance. When Elisara caught wind of this, she pounced like a cat on a mouse. She slammed her shoulder into him, knocking him painfully to the ground.

"Ow!" Nathaniel exclaimed. "By the Maker woman, you fight like a common street thug!"

"Real battle won't be like a tournament, you know." Elisara offered him her hand and helped him to his feet. "All that matters is survival. And taking down more of the other side's forces, of course. But survival generally comes first when you're the one in the thick of things."

"Naturally, but surely they don't expect you to actually fight in a battle someday."

Her glare turned venomous. "Really. You think not? Might I ask why?"

"Well..." Maker's Blood, now he'd done it. "Uh, you'd have your father's forces for that, wouldn't you? Or the soldiers sworn to... wherever you end up living. When you're grown. I mean, when, uh..."

"When I'm _married_." She said the word like it was a curse. "Is that what you meant to say, _ser_?"

"...it's not an unreasonable statement, you know," Nathaniel continued, trying not to trip over his own tongue. "The beautiful daughter of a teyrn, strong, smart, able to beat the snot out of any man that crosses her path... you're quite the catch, you know." Her icy glare continued. "Or, at least, that's what I'd like to think. Maybe I'm crazy. Yep, that's me, Crazy Ol' Nate, living out on the woods chewing on bark and wrapped in uncured furs. There, now, does that make you feel better?"

Elisara's face relaxed, and he even thought he may have seen her smile slightly. "Is that really what you think?"

"That I'm crazy?" He grinned broadly. "Oh, most definitely. Have you met the rest of my family? We all come from Crazy Stock."

"No..." She pulled her eyes from his gaze, focusing intently on a nearby tuft of grass. "That I'm beautiful and strong and all that rubbish."

"Why would I say it were it not true?"

"Because you're crazy, by your own admission." She put her fisted hands on her hips, still holding her daggers. "I can hardly put faith in the words of a crazy man."

He swallowed nervously. "Well then... then I suppose I had a fleeting moment of sanity there." The day was wearing on. Soon enough, they would be back among the hustle and bustle of the Vigil. Maybe listening to the whims of Crazy Ol' Nate wasn't such a bad idea. He carefully placed his dagger on the ground before closing the distance between himself and Elisara. She didn't move, but at least she consented to meet his gaze. Her eyes felt like green pools of fire, burning into him.

"Best be careful, now," he said as he cautiously slid his hand along the side of her head. Some strange instinct screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it. "I think I feel the crazies coming back." It was too late to hold back now. He bent down slightly, softly touching his lips to hers. The fire he felt at her touch leaped in intensity when she did not pull away, when she pressed her body close and wrapped her arms around him. His kiss was returned with more ardor than he had hoped to find. He heard her daggers as they hit the ground, having fallen, forgotten, from her hands.

Lidded eyes gazed back at him as he pulled away. "You know," she said, her voice low and sultry, "I think I could come to like Crazy Nate."

Some part of him wanted to believe he hadn't brought her out here, alone and away from prying eyes, just so he could kiss her. That less-sane part of him wondered if it wasn't to find out whether or not the rumors were true. And if they were, would he truly know if it bothered him if he didn't confront the reality first? It wasn't as if he had lead a completely chaste life up himself until that point, but if common thought was to be believed a woman with the same kind of history had somehow marred herself, destroying her desirability.

Nothing he could see about Elisara appeared marred or undesirable.

This time _she_ kissed _him_ , and Holy Maker he didn't want her to stop. And yet... he pulled away. "I'm sorry," he stuttered. "I, well, I'm sorry, my lady, shouldn't have taken advantage of you like that."

There was that amused eyebrow again, shooting up and mocking him. "You can't take advantage of the willing, Nathaniel."

Such logic. He supposed he should be able to come up with a suitable counter-argument to that, but his brain was such a fog as he looked at her... doing so seemed like such a _stupid_ thing.

She leaned to kiss him again. This time, she prodded his lips with her tongue, and his mouth opened almost involuntarily to allow her inside. The pleasant late-afternoon air suddenly felt stiflingly warm, his leathers hot, cumbersome and uncomfortably _tight_ in certain areas. Areas that a particularly fiery woman was running her hand along, slipping her hand through the pleated leather below his waist. He moaned into their kiss, wondering just when and how she had managed to slip her gloves off.

While her hand still performed its exhilarating ministrations, she pulled away from his mouth and began peppering a trail of kisses down his jawline until she reached his ear. Her other hand ran through his hair, turning his head to the side as she latched onto his ear, sucking and licking and Oh _Maker_... A nip on his ear lobe sharpened his focus momentarily.

"Please... Ellie... you don't have to..." He gasped as she nipped at him again. "If we keep doing this... I'm not going to want to stop."

She chuckled, a deep, throaty noise. "Good. It'd be a shame to waste that long walk into the middle of nowhere." With that, she began fumbling with the buckles on his armor. Following her lead, he hurriedly removed his gauntlets and then helped Elisara with the rest of his clasps. Once his cuirass was off and tossed to the side, Elisara made quick work of the thin under padding, leaving him clad in only his smallclothes, greaves, and boots. She ran her hands along his chest, sliding them down to his sides and around to his buttocks, pulling him close in that same movement.

"I don't suppose there's anywhere out here at least marginally more comfortable?" Elisara asked. "I mean," she motioned to the tree behind her, "it would be fun here, but one of us would have to wear our leathers, and that just seems to defeat the point, yes?"

"I have an old bed roll in with my supplies..." Nathaniel offered. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing. Hang on a moment."

Could this feel _any_ more awkward? Nathaniel sure hoped not, because if walking was uncomfortable, thinking about this whole situation would be enough for him to lose the courage it had taken him this long to muster. Hastily digging through his supplies, he managed to make a terrible mess of things but soon enough he found what he was looking for. When he turned around, Elisara was nowhere to be found.

"Elisara?" he called. "Oh Maker, please tell me this isn't some horrible joke!"

The sound of laughter floated down to him. "I'm up here!" Her head appeared over the edge of the overhang. "Hurry up with that! There are some places that a woman simply does not want dirt lodged."

There was no need to tell him twice. As he rounded the corner and climbed up the small hill made by the rock face, he stopped dead his his tracks. Was it even _possible_ for someone to get out of their own armor _that_ quickly?

Clearly it was, because the evidence was lying on her side in front of him, bare-skinned and looking quite smug. Even her long red hair had been removed from its tieback, pooling on the ground beneath her head.

He shook out the bedroll and laid it down next to Elisara, hoping that the action of doing so would distract from the burning sensation crawling up his neck. Maker, no woman had ever made him feel so like a bumbling fool before... and yet, that almost made her more appealing. He'd never been with a woman so eager to take charge of the situation before. Well, except that one time at the Crown and the Lion. But this felt _totally_ different from that, regardless of the similar names the gossip gave to Elisara.

"You, ser, are still far too dressed." With that, she rolled onto the blanket and began tugging at Nathaniel's leg guards. He hurried the process along by working on the other leg, kicking off his boots as Elisara cast his greaves aside.

She eyed him strangely as he laid down on the bedroll beside her. "Something the matter?" he asked, running his fingers through her hair. He was almost afraid his hand would come away dyed cherry red, the color was so intense. "If you've changed your mind..."

"If I'd changed my mind, I would have made for the shadows and, oh yeah, I'd still be wearing my armor." Elisara grinned wickedly. "You, on the other hand..." She reached down, slipping her hand inside his smallclothes. She said something, but her words became completely garbled somewhere between his ears and his brain.

"Wait, what?"

"I said, you're _still_ far too dressed for my liking, ser."

He fumbled with his last bit of clothing, squirming until his underthings could be flung away with his foot. Hooking her leg over his thigh, Elisara pulled Nathaniel's hips into hers while running the tips of her fingers down his side. The subtle grinding of her hips drove him insane, and for a moment he closed his eyes and let the sensation wash over him. He reached for her, his hand caressing her face before kissing her again. Hands, tongues, hips, and legs touched and teased one another as their kisses became more ardent. Nathaniel carefully squeezed Elisara's breast with his free hand, gently squeezing and twisting its firmed nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She moaned, pushing her chest closer to him. Encouraged by her response, he pulled his mouth away from hers and moved it cover the swollen pink tip. Her moaning changed to more of a deeper guttural humming. He felt her run her hand through his hair, deliberately seeking out his now-disheveled braid and undoing it deftly.

Exhilarated by her reactions, Nathaniel decided to push forward just a bit more. Bit by bit he stroked his hand down Elisara's side, slowly making his way to the apex of her thighs. As his fingers explored tentatively and she shifted her leg to the side to allow him further access. She felt so warm and soft, yet the way she gyrated against his palm spoke to her hunger. Concentration faltered, a wave of desire washing over him as she found one of his own nipples with her forefinger.

And suddenly, he felt her shift, yanking her breast from his mouth and shifting away from the touch of his hand. He wasn't quite sure how she did it, but the next thing he knew Nathaniel was looking up at Elisara, her face framed by her acutely red hair. Animalistic lust shone in her eyes as she languidly inched her body down his torso, rubbing against his length as she did so. Everything tensed at her touch, only the feel of her against him, the heat of her closeness filling his mind. It didn't quite register when her body pulled away and her hand took its place.

And those fingers, so commanding and knowing, their play brief and teasing, a prelude of what was to come. When she pulled him into her mouth, _that_ was a whole different story.

It was all he could do not to lose control. Others had… But never like _this…_ He clutched blindly at the grass beside him with one hand, the other he placed on Elisara's head, not quite sure what to do with it but most definitely _not_ wanting her to stop.

Time lost all meaning. The whole _world_ lost all meaning beyond his immediate sphere of existence. Her head, her tongue, the way her mouth gently drew on him when she pulled back. Beyond that, nothing else existed. He felt his whole body stiffen; oh Maker he was going to...

And she knew. She could sense it. When she pulled away, an unbidden gasp escaped him. The slight spring breeze, merely pleasant until now, felt positively frigid as it blew over his now-dampened length. Between the chill and the mind-numbing desire, he couldn't help but shudder. She moved back up, still smiling her wicked grin, straddling his midsection so that she hovered over him.

"Oh no you don't, not yet."

She kissed him briefly before leaning back, angling herself over his hips and positioning herself. When she found him, she thrust down and the world shrank back to the span of an arm's reach. Any measure of restraint he may have one had was utterly and totally gone and it did not take long for her to bring him to his inevitable climax. She cried out as Nathaniel felt his final paroxysm of pleasure build and release within her.

Elisara collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily. She lay her head on his chest, her smile turned much more contented. He could get used to this, oh by Andraste's holy knickers he could. It would take a lot to convince Father, but it could be done. It had to be done. To let such a perfect match to such a perfect woman slip away, it was unthinkable.

Slowly, awareness of their circumstances came filtering back to him. The sun had gotten low in the sky, dipping beneath the trees and turning the light a somber orange.

"You know, we really should be heading back," Nathaniel said.

She looked up at him and sighed. "You're probably right. Doesn't mean I want to hurry back to Proper Manners and Repression of Individuality Land."

He couldn't help chuckling a little at the image. "It's not all bad. I mean, there are puppies there!"

"Puppies?" Elisara rolled off of his chest and lay beside him, propping her head up with her arm. "What puppies?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you?" He turned onto his side to face her. "Aubergine had a litter of pups about a month ago. Are you still hoping to bond with a mabari?"

"...you have no idea." Elisara's face lit up at the admission.

"Well then, as much as it pains me, we should get dressed and head back." Nathaniel sat up, soaking in the sight of her one last time.

"Lead the way, ser knight."

"I thought I asked you not to call me that."

"In case you haven't been paying attention, I rarely do what I'm told." There was that wicked grin again.

"And don't you ever change that, my dear." He leaned over and kissed her again. "Come on, let's go before they send out the garrison to find us."

She smirked. "That sounds... exciting."

Oh yes, he could _definitely_ get used to this. After today, Crazy Ol' Nate and his cracked ideas suddenly didn't seem so crazy after all.

.oOo.


	7. Keeping Vigil: Part 2

  


  


  


.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Elisara ~

* * *

A long trestle table had been set up in the center of one of the Vigil's smaller halls, bedecked with all the trappings. The kitchen and serving staff flitted in and out of the room, refilling tankards and wine glasses, bringing new dishes and clearing away old plates. Conversation floated around Elisara as she stabbed listlessly at her meat. Was this venison? Beef? Pork, maybe? All she could tell was that it was dry and lacking flavor save for the thick gravy that had been slathered on top. Maybe it was a slab of bear meat, some cook having decided it went best with the bear crest that decorated the top rim of the plate.

"You show up late and then you refuse to eat?" Mother scolded quietly. She had been seated to the Teyrna's left, and could feel her eyes boring into her. She continued to avoid Mother's gaze. "At least put forth a token effort of not looking horrendously offended by the Howe's hospitality."

Elisara sighed. "Yes, Mother." She poked her meat yet again.

"So, do you think the weather will hold through the week, Rendon?" Father sat at one end of the long table, just to Mother's right.

"It's been a dry spring this year, true, but such things are always unpredictable." Rendon Howe was never one to commit his word to anything unless he wholly believed it to be true. "The roads at least should be less like rivers of muck, Maker willing."

Elisara kept staring at her plate as Father and Arl Howe exchanged more empty words. Oren made some noises from his place between Oriana and Fergus, propped up in a special chair with long legs and a leather seat strap. Nathaniel's sister Delilah sat on Elisara's other side, also seemingly consumed with the contents of her plate.

Elisara's neck began to feel hot under the collar of her elaborate gown. She wanted neither to engage Mother's wrath nor to entertain the uncomfortable looks both Nathaniel and Thomas now gave her. Maker's Breath, she thought they had just been looking for a bit of entertainment this afternoon. But now, Nate was giving her those same puppy-dog eyes that Thomas plied her with from across the table. Her heart lifted at the thought of puppies. She would need to suffer more of Nathaniel's sappy looks if she wanted to see the mabari pups after dinner. A small price, certainly.

A hush fell over the table, Oren's happy chewing notwithstanding, as a page approached Arl Howe. He bowed, handing over a sealed letter as he did so. "My lord, you asked that any letter bearing Lord Cyriack's seal be delivered as soon as it was received."

Arl Rendon nodded and waved away the message bearer, breaking the seal with his butter knife. After scanning the letter for several moments, he passed the letter to Nathaniel. "It appears that they are willing to give you a chance after all."

Elisara peered around Deliah and watched as Nathaniel quickly read the letter. His face lit up as he reached the bottom. "Andraste's holy mercy... I'm going to the Free Marches!"

"Presuming they don't put you on the first ship home, of course," Arl Rendon interjected.

"They won't, Father, you'll see." Elisara could believe it. Sure, she had bested him while they were sparring, but he gave as good as he got.

"Good news, I take it?" Father asked. He sipped from his wine glass, his look curious.

"Our relatives in the Free Marches has agreed to accept my son into his service to squire," Rendon explained. "I'm not quite sure what good it will do, if he refuses to pick up a real weapon," he sighed and shrugged. "But perhaps Cyriack will be more... persuasive than mine own master-of-arms."

"Sometimes it takes a change of scenery and mentors before a student can truly learn," Bryce said. "Squiring may be just the thing the boy needs."

"That we shall see," Arl Rendon said with a scowl. "One way or the other."

Maker's Breath, Elisara cursed to herself, why was the arl so disapproving of Nathaniel? Could he not see he was a fine fighter, an excellent archer, and a knowledgeable woodsman? Elisara had seen all these things in the span of one afternoon, how could his father not see them?

"And if he doesn't learn, maybe he just won't come back," Thomas caught Elisara's eye as he spoke. "Wouldn't that be... interesting." She glared at him for a moment before snapping her gaze away.

"That's quite enough, Thomas," Rendon admonished his son. Thomas threw back his glass, draining it with a shudder, then promptly refilled it from the nearby decanter.

"Where will you be squiring, Nathaniel?" Oriana asked politely. Her attention was promptly distracted from the answer, as Oren had managed to spill his small glass of milk all over himself. She and Fergus fussed with him as one of the dogs that wandered the halls slipped between Elisara's legs, heading to where the milk puddled on the floor.

Nathaniel answered Oriana's question while they attempted to get Oren marginally cleaned up. "My great-uncle Cyriack has a small holding sworn to the Thane of Markham. It's maybe a day's ride from the city."

"Well, I, for one, think congratulations are in order," Fergus said, raising his tankard as he spoke. "To Nathaniel! May the Free Marches lead him to a brighter future."

Elisara raised her glass with the others, taking a hearty sip in toast. Some part of her was indeed happy that Nate would get a chance to prove himself out from under his father's disdain. But the idea made her uneasy as well. Nathaniel would probably push for a match between the two of them once he could claim knighthood. It would be a huge obstacle overcome, one that his father could no longer hold against him. From what she had seen over the years, Nathaniel was fun, interesting, smart, and skilled with his blades, even if they were short ones. But the thought of being tied to anyone for the rest of her life, let alone someone who she was expected to breed with like an Orlesian racing horse… No. She was not going to think about that right now. Nate would be gone for several years, and a lot could change in that time. Maybe Thomas's leering prediction would come true, and he would come back home with some pretty Marcher girl on his arm. Or maybe he wouldn't come back at all. She shook her head, hoping to clear it of such morose thoughts.

Several servants entered the hall, each carrying a tray. Circling the table, they cleared away the mystery meat and replaced it with a crescent-shaped pastry. The outer edge had been cut into, giving it the appearance of having little square fingers.

"Bear claws," Delilah muttered. "Why is it always bear claws when we have company?"

Elisara giggled. "I think it's cute. Our pastry chef in Highever does something similar with blueberry danishes."

"Now see, that I'd like to try," Delilah replied. "Cookie always makes them with almonds. Bleh!" She wrinkled her nose to complete the effect.

Elisara laughed. She picked up her pastry and took a tentative nibble. "Eh, not bad. But I agree, blueberry would be better."

"What are you two giggling about?" Nathaniel asked, peering around his sister to address Elisara.

"Almonds," Delilah said. "Cookie always makes bear claws with almonds."

"You can make them other ways?" He asked, perplexed.

"I would think if you were doing the baking, you could fill them with whatever you wished!" Elisara argued.

"So, Ellie, are you still wanting to go to the kennels after we're done here?" Nathaniel asked in a too-casual tone as he clumsily changed topics.

"Ellie?" Delilah raised an eyebrow, looking at her brother.

"I mean," he cleared his throat, "My Lady Elisara, of course."

Delilah's expression grew more incredulous, but she said nothing further.

"I would be most honored, My Lord Nathaniel," Elisara replied, making an over-exaggerated gesture holding her hand to her chest while bowing her head.

"I suppose I just hadn't realized that you two had become so… familiar." Delilah gave Elisara a look which she could not quite read. Was she offended? Curious? Or was she possibly amused?

Nathaniel grinned. "We have been familiar for years now… I mean, it's not like the Couslands are strangers here in the Vigil."

"Of course, that must be it," Delilah said, her tone belying her agreement.

Elisara turned her attention back to her dessert. Delilah was obviously leaping to conclusions, and besides, what did it matter? It was none of her business, anyhow.

The thought of Nate lying under her, writhing in pleasure… she lost herself in the memory for a moment. She wondered if it would be possible to repeat such an encounter before they left for Denerim. It would be nothing more than a lark, she told herself. He would forget about her during his years of squiring, and any attachment he may think he felt now would be meaningless soon enough. All the more reason to enjoy him being at her beck and call while it lasted. Maybe their next encounter could be made to last even longer. The thought made her tingle all over.

"Are you ready, my lady?" She started at the sound of his voice so close to her ear. Nathaniel had snuck up behind her while she was daydreaming.

Swallowing the last bit of her dessert, she nodded. "I am. Lead the way, my good lord."

"We expect you back in your chambers by Last Bells, Elisara," Mother said sternly.

"Of course Mother, would you expect anything less of me?" She smiled sweetly.

"Of course not, dear. Now run along."

Elisara grinned as Nate offered her his arm, which she took gratefully. Let Mother think there was more to this than there was. It may actually keep her from trying to foist her off on every eligible male of the Bannorn.

A girl could dream, anyway.

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


The warm scent of horses and hay hit her as they entered the stables. The Vigil kept several of the beasts, but like most of Ferelden's nobility they were kept and bred for pulling carriages and wagons, not for riding. Nathaniel lead her around the corner, away from the horse stalls and toward the mabari kennels. The air soon smelled more of dog than it did of horse.

"Aubergine's pen is near the back, this way." Nathaniel lead her past several kennels, some of which contained sleeping mabari while others stood empty. It was too early in the evening for the kennel master to have bedded them all down just yet.

"Baxley!" Nathaniel called.

A man standing over a workbench turned to great them. "Why, Master Nathaniel! A pleasure, it 'tis." He put his bloody knife down next to the meat he had been chopping into bits. "Cookie said I have you to thank for tonight's bounty of venison."

"He… sent my deer to you?" He sounded hurt by this revelation.

"Oh, don't look like that, milord. It was more that he already had plans made up, and they didn't include venison. And besides, the mabari deserve the best we can afford to give them, am I right?"

"I… yes, of course you're right, Baxley. I had just thought… oh, never mind."

"And who is this lovely lady you have brought to my dusty and filth-ridden kennels?" Baxley bowed in Elisara's direction. "She looks far too well born to be my new stable girl."

"I am Elisara Cousland, good ser. Lord Nathaniel mentioned that one of your mabari has a litter of pups at present?"

"Oh aye, and a fine litter they are. Three pups, two boys and a girl. Fine pups they are. A little over a month old, now. Come! I will introduce you." Baxley bowed again, gesturing in the general direction of the back of the kennel. Nathaniel headed in that direction.

The high-pitched yipping noises that came from the bin along the far wall gave away the location of the birthing pen. The sound brought back memories of the many litters they had raised back at Castle Cousland. Elisara had made it a habit to visit the kennels every day when there were pups in residence, but as of yet her efforts had gone unrewarded. Ever since she had first seen their old kennel master with Spitfire, his prize breeding mabari, she had been envious of the bond they shared. She had tried everything she could think of to get a mabari to bond to her. But after so many disappointments, she had also learned to temper her hopes.

"Ho now, lad, best let me go in first," Baxley interjected. "Gennie's still mighty possessive of her pups, you understand." He stepped ahead of them, making soft noises as he went. The mother mabari stood up, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she wagged her stump of a tail.

"Is she…" Elisara whispered to Nathaniel.

"She is," he confirmed. "We tease him, saying that they're like an old married couple."

Elisara smiled. "How sweet!"

"Alright, you can come on over, but slowly now!" Baxley called. He scratched Aubergine's ears as he spoke.

Cautiously, Elisara peered into the birthing pen. Three mabari pups played in the straw, tumbling and growling as they fought their play battles with one another. Two were grey, one medium and one dark, and one was reddish-brown. They turned their heads when they heard Elisara let out a squeal. "Oh, Nate, they're _so_ adorable!"

"Here," Baxley said. He handed her a few bloody scraps of meat. "They're old enough to start getting little nibbles of meat now and again. Go on!"

Elisara dangled the first piece of venison in the air, just out of the pup's reach. They hurried over to her, stumbling over their own paws as they went. Gingerly she lowered her hand, dropping the piece of meat as the pups lunged for it. They pounced in unison, scrabbling for ownership of the tidbit. Baxley slipped her another piece of meat, and the scene repeated.

"I saw the strangest mabari once," Elisara mused. "Pure white all over, even his muzzle."

"Aye, I've heard tales of such beasts. They don't normally live very long, sadly," Baxley replied.

Had the little mabari lived, she wondered? She had never heard anything about a white mabari with blood-red eyes running around Denerim, but why would word of such news have made it to her? He probably either bonded to some rank-and-file soldier or had died young, with only Dog-Boy there to mourn his passing.

Elisara reached into the pen and petted the light-grey mabari on the head. She rolled over on her back, legs flailing in the air, and Elisara took this as an invitation. The pup squirmed happily as she rubbed her belly.

"Here's the last of what I've got cut up small enough for them," Baxley handed Elisara a few more scraps of meat. "Watch Greedy-Gut over there, he never seems to get his fill of tidbits."

"Greedy-Gut?" Elisara said with a giggle. "Is that his actual name?"

"For now," Baxley replied, shrugging. "If he bonds with someone, they'll surely name him something more distinguished. If he doesn't bond, not all of them do, milady, maybe it'll stay his name, who knows?"

"Well, I would never call you greedy, little one." She shook the piece of meat high in the air, and the red-brown mabari leapt around in a frenzy, trying to reach it. "You just know how to watch out for yourself, isn't that right?"

The pup yipped a puppy-bark in response, and quickly caught the piece of meat as Elisara tossed it at him.

"Andraste's Grace, those little buggers are smart," Nathaniel commented. Elisara had almost forgotten he was there.

"Smartest and most noble dogs ever to walk the earth." Elisara tossed the last piece of meat to Greedy-Gut, and then allowed him to lick her fingers clean. "That's right, eat up now and you'll grow into a big strong boy, bigger than your sister and brother, oh yes, yes you will!"

The pup bowed his chest down to the hay, sticking his hindquarters in the air and wagging his impossibly small tail. His whole back half shook with the effort.

Baxley regarded Elisara, arms crossed and an enigmatic grin on his face. "Mark my words, Lady Cousland; I think Greedy's taken a shine to you."

She tried to dampen the rush of hope that filled her at his words. "Oh, I don't know. Meat snacks tend to make any mabari take a shine to someone. Besides, can they truly bond so young? It was my understanding that these things usually happened later on, when the pup was older."

"Usually is a funny word like that, milady," Baxley replied. "These things don't happen at birth 'tis true… but a mabari will always know when it finds its human. Sometimes it's when they're young, sometimes when they're older. Imprinting is no alchemical science or anything."

Nathaniel put his hand on Elisara's shoulder. "We really should be headed back to the keep, my lady."

"I suppose so." She reached in the pen to pet the ruddy pup. "Maybe I'll come see you again tomorrow sometime. Would you like that?"

The pup sat down, looking at her with his criminally adorable puppy eyes. He cocked his head to the side and whined.

"I'll bring snacks!"

He stood up, tail wagging and tongue lolling, and gave a happy bark.

"Farewell then, Greedy-Gut," Elisara waved to him and giggled. The pup watched her as she turned away. "And thank you, ser, for letting us visit them. They are a true delight."

"It was my pleasure, milady." Baxley bowed formally, or at least as formally as a dog keeper possibly could. Elisara smiled at the sight.

When they had moved some distance away from the pen, Elisara heard the scrabbling of paws and more heart-piercing whining. She overheard Baxley scolding the pup. "Now, now, little Greedy-Gut, you can't go with her Ladyship. Come now, it's alright! Here's a big ol' deer rib for ya. There's a boy, yes?"

Elisara sighed. Nathaniel offered her his arm again, which she took merely to avoid awkward questions. If they looked like they were having a private walk together, they would most likely be left alone.

"Baxley is rarely wrong with his judgments, you know," Nathaniel said as they walked up the main steps of the Vigil. "He's been around mabari all his life, or so I'm told."

"And I've been looking for a mabari all of mine," Elisara countered. "I've learned not to get too excited about these things." It did feel different somehow this time, but didn't she think that every time she met a particularly friendly mabari? She would go back in the morning and see if the feeling was still there.

.oOo.

* * *

The door made a popping noise as she pushed it open, the old boards shifting in protest. Elisara froze, listening. Greeted only by silence, she slipped into the hallway. Her bare feet felt almost frozen as she walked along the cold stone floor. The slippers they had provided her snapped against her heals with every step, so she had left them behind in the name of stealth.

Elisara wandered down the hallway, carefully listening for and avoiding the few servants and guards who walked the corridors. If worst came to worst, she would claim she was looking for the kitchens and a midnight snack. She knew the Howe's kept their rooms down the hallway from were they had been put up, but she wasn't completely sure which door was Nate's.

When she reached the intersection of the hallway, she listened. No footsteps, and the muffled sounds of snoring came from the opposite corridor. She slipped across the main hallway, heading for the first door. Cautiously she placed her ear against it. The room's occupant was within, snoring loudly. She told herself that simply had to be Thomas or Arl Rendon as she moved on to the next door. No sound came from within. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned the handle of the door, hoping to peek in the room and determine who, if anyone, was sleeping within.

The door would not budge.

A small keyhole was visible beneath the door handle. Elisara peered through it, but nothing but vague grey darkness came through from the other side. She reached into the pocket of her nightshift and pulled out a twisted piece of metal. _Quiet as a feather, silent as a wraith._ Metal-on-metal clicks came from the lock as Elisara attempted to turn the cogs within, which were far too loud for her liking. She attempted to look into the lock once again...

The little light that came from the keyhole disappeared, and in one quick motion the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Elisara found herself eye-to-waist with Delilah Howe. Scrambling to her feet, all pretext of stealth destroyed, Elisara stammered out a few nonsense words.

"I must say, you have surprised me, Cousland." Delilah regarded her coolly. "Out of the three of us, I least expected your desires would lead you to my chambers. None of the stories that exist about you mention a penchant for women."

Elisara simply stared, words utterly failing her. Would she call the guards? Or would she simply gloat, mentioning in giggling whispers the night that Elisara Cousland tried to break into her bedroom whenever her name came up in conversation?

Or even worse, would she tell Thomas that she'd been looking for him in the middle of the night? The thought made her stomach clench.

"And she's lost her tongue, too. My, my, this is a most interesting development." Delilah was positively gloating now. "My brother's room is right across the hall," she said with a quick gesture.

"But..." Elisara stumbled over her leaden tongue. "Which brother?"

"Why don't you go burgle your way in and find out?" With that, Delilah slammed the door in Elisara's face. She had to jump back to avoid having her nose smashed against the stout wooden beams.

Elisara pressed her hand to her face in frustration. Nothing good could come from that last encounter, but at least she knew which door to try next. Thomas would probably be passed out in an alcoholic stupor anyway, so no harm would come out of breaking into his room.

More light came through this door's keyhole, so Ellie was able to see a bit more. Nothing was visible that placed the room definitively as Nathaniel's however. Surprisingly, she found the door to be unlocked, so Elisara pushed it open ever so slowly. She saw some furniture, but not the bed nor the room's occupant. Since no noise came from within, she stuck her head inside and peered around to the other side of the room. A large four-poster bed filled the space, across from a fireplace subtly lit by logs burnt down to embers.

Someone stirred under the bed covers.

Elisara pulled her head out of the doorway purely by gut reaction, but she did not run away. A guttural snort of a snore came from behind the door. Whoever it was, Nathaniel or Thomas, they were clearly just tossing in their sleep. Armed with that knowledge, she swallowed as she forced herself to push the door open, hurrying through. She pondered the lock as she closed it behind her, and decided for now to leave it cracked open in case she needed to make a quick escape. It could always be locked later.

A thick bearskin rug lay before the fire, its face frozen in an angry scowl. Elisara slowly made her way toward it, hoping it would dull her footsteps. The long shaggy fur warmed her cold bare feet, and yet she found herself frozen in place as she attempted to identify who was sleeping in the bed. It may have been a trick of the light, but when she caught sight of the sleeper's dark brown hair she let out the breath she didn't even know she was holding. Cautiously pulling on the top comforter, she exposed more of the sleeper's face. Thank the Maker, it _was_ Nate. Delilah hadn't lead her wrong after all.

Elisara hurried to the far side of the bed, flinging her nightshift over her head and sliding under the covers. He stirred slightly as she placed her arm around his chest but did not wholly wake. A devilish idea came to her as she felt Nathaniel's warmth soak into her feet. She shoved them under his legs, wiggling her toes to complete the effect.

"Whaaaaa?" Nathaniel muttered sleepily. He squirmed, trying to get away from the freezing intruders to his bed. Inadvertently he turned to face her. "Ellie!" He snapped awake at the realization. "What in the name of Andraste's grace are you _doing_ here?" His eyes darted down to her nakedness for an awkward moment, before he snapped his gaze back up to her face.

"Wondering if you were still awake. I couldn't sleep."

He rubbed his forehead, still disbelieving. "Right. Which is why I find you naked in my bed, jarring me awake with your icy feet rather than knocking at my door."

"I didn't say it was my only reason, did I?" She caressed his face as she spoke.

"Didn't get enough earlier, did you?"

"Don't you sleep better after releasing some... tension?" Elisara narrowed her eyes and grinned at him.

"Well sure, it's just most of the time I don't have a pretty woman in my bed to aid me with the task." He kissed her then, angling his body so that she was forced back onto the pillows. She kissed him back hungrily, her hand caressing his neck, his arm, his torso.

"You were so... insistent before, Ellie. You never gave me a chance to properly attend to you." Nathaniel massaged one of her breasts as he spoke, taking its nipple into her mouth when he finished.

"Then by all means, ser... attend away." She had enjoyed their dalliance earlier, but she certainly hadn't climaxed very strongly. Taking charge was fun, but an attentive partner had its benefits too. Coherent thought about such matters left her as Nate's hand slid between her thighs and caressed her gently. She moaned in response, but quietly so as not to attract unwanted attention. When he slid his forefingers inside her, it suddenly became a lot more difficult to stay as quiet as she knew she should.

Faster than she could react, Elisara felt an unfamiliar movement bound across the bed followed by Nate shouting curses and lashing out. A whimpering _thud_ then came up from the floor. She sat up, trying to figure out what in the Maker's name had just happened.

Out of nowhere, Greedy-Gut leapt onto the bed, teeth barred and glaring at Nate. His whole demeanor changed when he met eyes with Elisara's. He bounded over to her, with an almost human look of self-satisfaction on his face.

"You! What are you doing here, Greedy-Gut?" Elisara asked, her voice sounding odd to her own ears.

Greedy-Gut yipped happily, wagging his tail. He then turned his gaze to Nathaniel and growled.

"He wasn't hurting me, you silly little beast!" She laughed. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

The pup looked at her again and whined.

"The little bugger bit me!" Nathaniel protested. "He obviously disagrees with your feelings about the situation."

"You were just trying to protect me, weren't you little Greedy? Yes, you were!" She scratched his ears and the mabari leaned into her touch. "Are you okay?" she asked Nate.

"I think so, he got more sheet than flesh, I believe." He twisted, trying in vain to examine his own posterior.

"Let me look," Elisara offered as she leaned over. "Doesn't look bad, more of a scratch than anything. Wait a moment." Still naked, she climbed out of bed and glanced around until she found Nathaniel's wash basin. Making her way over to the side table, she wet a nearby washcloth and brought it back to the bed. The pup followed at her heals as she went.

"Turn around," she instructed. She dabbed the washcloth on the wound, cleaning it gently. "You should be alright, I think"

"That depends. What are we going to do with your little mood spoiler?" Nate shut the door, making sure to lock it firmly.

"He's not mi-" Elisara cut herself off. "Wait a minute. How did he know where I was? And why did he come to find me?" It was hard to contain her excitement.

"I told you Baxley knows a thing or two about mabari, didn't I?" Nate gloated.

Elisara picked the mabari pup up from the floor, holding him around the chest under his forelegs. His little paws dangled, quivering in time as he wagged his tail frantically. The little dog licked her nose and grinned as only a mabari could grin. "Holy Maker..." She hugged Greedy-Gut to her chest, causing him to whimper and squirm. "Sorry, boy," she said sheepishly as she let him back down on the bed. "I didn't mean to hurt you." He licked her hand in response.

Elisara climbed back onto the bed, covering herself with Nathaniel's blankets. "You're going to need a proper name, you know, if you're going to be a Cousland," She patted her hand on the mattress, and the pup came to her obediently. "I've always been horrible with names, but Greedy-Gut Cousland just doesn't have a good ring to it."

"I think you should name him mabarius Interruptus," Nate grumbled as he crawled into bed beside her.

"Hush you, you're just jealous." She pursed her lips, deep in thought. "My mother once told me that if I'd been born a boy, my name would have been Horace. Horace! Can you believe that?"

"One of our guards is named Horace. It's not such a terrible name, is it?" Nathaniel asked.

"I suppose not... but I think the name suits a dog far better than a human. What do you think?" Elisara asked as she rubbed the pup's belly. He sighed happily in response. "Horace it is then!"

Horace rolled over and sat up. "Good boy, Horace!" He shook with excitement as she spoke.

Elisara could almost hear Nate rolling his eyes. "What will your mother think of that?"

"I think she'll think twice before offering up names for my grandchildren, presuming I ever have any."

Nate sighed. "You'd better take him back to your room then... I'm not in the mood to be a chew toy twice in one night."

"Let me try something first." Elisara picked up Horace, and slipped out of the bed a second time. She placed Horace on the bearskin rug at the foot of the bed, squatting down to make sure she met the pup's gaze. "Now Horace, listen to me. I want you to stay on this rug until I tell you."

Horace whined, hanging his head pathetically.

"I'm serious. And no more biting! Nate isn't trying to hurt me, I promise."

Horace whined more, but he laid down in a little ball as he complained.

"Good boy," Elisara praised Horace. His tail wagged half-halfheartedly.

With that, Elisara stood and returned to Nathaniel's bed. "He had better not mess on the rug," he complained. "My father and I killed that bear, the one and only time he offered to take me hunting. Said it was the only worthy quarry in these woods."

"Oh don't worry, it'll be fine." She abruptly changed the subject. "A mabari, Nate! And he's all mine. Not even Father can say no if he's truly bonded to me."

"You're just lucky his teeth didn't bond too firmly with my ass," Nate said, sulking.

"Don't worry... I can make it up to you..." She caressed him as she spoke.

It did not take them long to pick up where they had left off.

Horace whined a bit, pacing around the bed when Elisara's whimpers of pleasure turned to muffled screams, but his discomfort barely registered on her consciousness. Fortunately, he did not jump on the bed this time.

When they had finished, Nate curled up at Elisara's side, his upturned arm and leg draping her. "See?" Elisara said. "He's a good boy. And he listens! Isn't that right Horace?"

Horace yipped happily.

Nathaniel had indeed lived up to his promise this second time around. Elisara felt fully contented as she lay beside him, and yet as her pulse slowed her excitement came rushing back. She had a mabari imprinted to her. How could a bond like that compare to the brief, fleeting pleasures of sex? She smiled to herself. Nate would forget about her, given time. But a bonded mabari was forever. Was it even possible for people to make such true commitments? Maybe peasants, who were granted the freedom to marry for love. Horace may be the closest she ever came to such a bond. She treasured it wholeheartedly.

"I should get back to my room," Elisara said, trying to sound disappointed. Nate hummed in response, already drifting back to sleep. How typical, she thought.

She slid out from under his arm and found her discarded nightshift. "Come, Horace," she called. They headed together back to her chambers, Horace almost tripping her up several times in his excitement.

It would take them some time to get used to one another. Elisara knew she would love every minute of it.

.oOo.

  



	8. A Warden's Duty: Part 1

  


  


  


.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Duncan ~

* * *

The fire popped loudly, startling Duncan out of deep thought. The room provided to him by Arl Eamon was spacious, far larger and much better appointed than his own quarters back in Denerim. The hearth was huge, and its warmth had finally made Duncan feel human again. He had spent a good portion of the day outside, surveying the make-shift tournament the arl had thrown together for his benefit. Such events were almost always pointless, but the gentry seemed obliged to host them whenever he visited. Duncan had hoped that arriving around First Day would have meant that Redcliffe was already planning a more traditional celebration, but such had not been his luck. Eamon had insisted on putting Redcliffe's best fighters on display, short notice be damned. None of the combatants had truly caught Duncan's eye as one who would make a stellar recruit, so he had politely defaulted to recruiting the one declared the winner.

But recruitment had not been foremost on his mind when Duncan had traveled to Redcliffe in the depths of winter. He turned back to the letter he was attempting to compose.

 _Fiona,_

 _Little has changed, and the time when the boy will take his final vows and become a full Templar grows ever closer. I have spoken with the Revered Mother here in Redcliffe, and she has agreed to ensure that Alistair answers the call after I submit my request for recruits to the Grand Cleric in Denerim._

 _I know your feelings about the Chantry are strong, but from what I've been able to see, the boy's time in the Chantry has not been wholly wasted. The training and education he has received will be useful. As much as may have been difficult to accept, I certainly could not have recruited him any younger. The ranks of the Grey Wardens are not a place for children, you know that as well as I._

 _I hope you can come not to resent his training. A Templar's talents should have the same effect on a Darkspawn emissary as they do on a mage. The Grey Wardens must make use of_ all _available talents, even the ones we personally abhor. Your son will serve valiantly, I am certain of it._

 _I do worry for the ramifications of this decision, for I do not wish to sour King Cailan's unwavering support of the Grey Wardens. I believe once I explain to him how this move secures his line of succession even more than a mere oath of celibacy, he will become agreeable to this plan._

Duncan paused. His infrequent letters to Weisshaupt had become even more infrequent since King Maric's death. There was little to report and Fiona's vitriol over Maric's decision to send Alistair to the Chantry was palpable, even through the lens of parchment and distance. While they had traveled to Denerim after the boy had been born, Duncan had made a promise to Fiona to watch over her son. He had never dreamed that his promise would ever manifest itself so literally.

Or at least he hoped it would be so, in the end.

 _Let us both pray that this will be the right path for the boy. He will face the same risks we all did when we drank from the chalice, but if you wish him to take that chance I will not defy you._

 _I will send word once his Joining is complete. May the Maker watch over us all._

He signed his name to the bottom of the letter, folding and sealing it with grey wax and the official stamp of the Warden Commander of Ferelden. There was a caravan staying down in Redcliffe village which had arrived for the First Day festivities, and word was they were leaving for Val Royeaux as soon as the weather cleared. The Wardens had a large presence in the Orlesian capital, and his letter would eventually be delivered to Weisshaupt from there.

Duncan sighed. Thoughts of the city he had called home before his foolish actions which lead him into the ranks of the Grey Wardens saddened him at times. He had not returned to Val Royeaux in more years than he liked to think about, and while he knew the city would never live up to his childhood memories, he still missed it. Duty had lead him to be stationed in Ferelden, and those who lived here were suspicious of anyone who seemed to have unabashed ties with Orlais. Most of the time it better not to mention his boyhood at all.

Setting his letter on the desk, Duncan placed a few more logs on the fire before climbing into bed. Tomorrow promised to be a long day.

.oOo.

* * *

 _He scrabbled at the rock , pulling and scraping until the rubble finally came loose. But there was more stone, always more stone._

 _All around him twisted husks of humanity pulled at the same rock walls. Some had made use of old broken weapons, but most dug with their bare hands. If they could still be called hands._

 _His fingers bled, claws worn down to bloody nubs. Behind him he heard a guttural incomprehensible chant, and his hands began to glow blue. As soon as his injuries were healed he thrust himself back into his efforts, tearing, ripping, needing to get through._

 _The song... that beautiful, terrible song... it was all around him. It pulled him, called him, forced him to tunnel his way through a wall of solid stone. He had to find the source of it. It needed him, somehow. The song longed to be free, to spread its joy to all corners of the world... if only they could dig a little faster... faster..._

Duncan sat up straight in bed, gasping. He was covered in a thin film of sweat. The dream had ended with everything going dark, a huge weight having crushed his head. He fell back onto his pillows. A dream. It had only been a dream.

Not a dream, a nightmare. A real one, not one brought on by the overcooked lamb and pea stew served for dinner that night in Lothering's tavern. He had seen through the eyes of one of the thousands of Darkspawn that lurked beneath his feet in the Deep Roads, felt what it felt, and even thought its alien thoughts.

It was the second time this winter that he had suffered through such a dream. Could he truly be succumbing to the taint so soon? The Calling came at different times for different people, and he had been a Grey Warden for over twenty years now. Still, it was early. Too early. Far too soon for these dreams to be happening.

If the dream was at all accurate, the Darkspawn were getting very close to unearthing another tainted Old God. Some of the older Wardens had reported similar dreams to him, but it had been the first time Duncan had dreamed one himself. The previous dream had not been nearly so specific nor so overwhelming.

Were this a real Blight, he needed to see his Wardens prepared for it. And there was Fiona's son to consider. He could not succumb just yet.

There was still so much to do.

.oOo.

* * *

The window in his study overlooked the training yard. Duncan watched for a few moments as his two newest recruits traded blows. Ser Gideon was the tournament winner from Redcliffe, while Aldemund had caught Duncan's eye on one of his visits to a dockside tavern here in Denerim. He went by the name of Mundy, and he fought like a man with four arms.

Someone knocked on the door frame of his open door. "Commander, the Templars are here to escort you to the tournament. You asked to be informed when they arrived?"

"I will be there in a moment," Duncan replied. "Thank you, Cornis." The page bowed and retreated.

He took one last look out of his window. The recruits would not be accompanying him this day, nor would any of the other Grey Wardens. There was no need to distract from their training, and things would go more smoothly were no other Grey Warden was there to argue with Duncan's recruitment decision. When the Chantry had received word that Duncan would be looking to their ranks to find suitable recruits, the Grand Cleric had declared that a tournament would be held so as best to display the fighting abilities of their Templars. All but the rawest initiates who wished to show their skill would assemble in Denerim. Duncan had tried to insist that he could make his decision without all the fanfare, but a wise person did not argue with the Grand Cleric for long.

Knight-Commander Glavin was waiting for him as he walked down the main stairs to the entrance hall of the compound, flanked by a pair of soldiers in identical white armor. The Templar bowed and saluted Duncan as he approached.

"Commander Duncan, it is good to see you again," Glavin said as he straightened.

"Please, Ser Glavin, as I told you before: my name is just Duncan." Duncan returned the same inclined salute. "Shall we be off, then?"

The Grey Warden's compound was located in the Palace District, and the Chantry had felt it proper to escort Duncan to their abbey just outside of the Market District. Each area of Denerim had its own chantry, but the North Abbey was the largest of them. It served a number of additional functions beyond what the district chantries could offer, such as housing Ferelden's highest ranking Chantry members and serving as the needs of the Templars.

Knight-Commander Glavin exchanged pleasantries as they made their way through the surprisingly warm streets. Ferelden was having a early and pleasant spring this year, though all knew that the cold could come back at any moment, accompanied by chilling spring rains. Ser Glavin did most of the talking, extolling the virtues of those sworn to him as well as some of the Templars who had arrived from elsewhere. Duncan chided himself for not having found a more circumspect way to recruit the lad, for he hated hearing of all these promising youngsters knowing they would most likely be turned away. But to simply show up on the doorstep of the Redcliffe chantry and demand that an initiate be turned over to him would have drawn too much attention. At least this way, the rumors that were bound to circulate would be about himself and his questionable judgment rather than whispers about the bastard lordling getting special treatment.

Duncan was lead through the main doors of the Chantry, and the chaotic hustle and bustle of street hawkers and petitioners and the posted Chanter melted away. The Grand Cleric herself was waiting for them alongside the large altar. Bending the knee in benediction, the three Templars stopped momentarily before the altar. Duncan bowed his head respectfully and patiently waited for them to rise.

"You do the Grey Wardens a great honor this day, Your Grace," Duncan said.

"The purpose of the Grey Wardens is a noble one," she responded. "You do the Maker's work by protecting us from those He has cast out of the Golden City. If any of our Templars can aid you in that crusade, then let it be so."

"As you say, Your Grace." He had never wholly believed the Chantry's version of events with regard to the Darkspawn, but politeness dictated that now was not the time nor the place for a theological discussion.

"Ser Glavin will show you to the practice yard. Know that you are our honored guest here. Please do not hesitate to ask if you are wanting for something, Ser Duncan." With that, the Grand Cleric took her leave of them, several priests following in her wake. Her authority encompassed only the spiritual aspect of Ferelden, but it was clear she ruled as firmly over her domain as any secular Queen.

"If you would follow me?" Ser Glavin said, gesturing toward one of the side exits. Leading him through the winding monetary hallways, the Knight-Commander soon lead them through a large pair of double doors and back out into the sunlight. The harsh noonday sun reflected off the sea of glimmering white armor in front of him. Ser Glavin forged a path through the throng, leading him to a rough-hewn platform that had clearly been hastily constructed in order to give him and a few other notables a better view of the proceedings. A simple bench had been set up on top, and the Templars marched to stand behind it.

"Please, Ser Duncan, have a seat," Ser Glavin instructed. "The Grand Cleric and the Revered Mother will be joining you shortly." He did as instructed, and Ser Glavin took up a place just behind him and to his right.

Scores of Templars had gathered around the outsides of the yard, while the center had been staked off and covered in a thin layer of fresh sand. Squinting against the bright reflections, Duncan surveyed the crowd. The last time he had seen Alistair had been over two years ago in Redcliffe, watching the lad spar in a very similar training yard from the window of Revered Mother Hannah's antechamber. He had to have grown some in that time, as young boys were wont to do. The boy had taken after his father's blood so strongly Duncan was confident he could pick out the boy from the mass of soldiers.

He stood when the Grand Cleric and the Revered Mother ascended the dais, moving down to the far end so that the Grand Cleric could have the middle seat. The crowd grew quiet when she raised her hands, commanding their attention.

"Holy Knights of the Maker, may His blessings shine down upon your arms and armor today. You have been called upon to prove yourself worthy of performing one of the Maker's most sacred duties, quelling the threat of those who despoiled the Golden City and were thus banished from Heaven. In His light, we shall prove our skills to the one called Duncan, Commander of the Grey and recruiter for the Grey Wardens in Ferelden." Duncan bowed his head so as to avoid the multitude of eyes that would naturally turn to him at the mention of his name. She continued. "We pray that the Maker shall guide our swords, and that He will lead the best of us to rise victorious at the end of the day. In the name of the Maker and his bride Andraste, we so pray."

The crowd responded in unison, a wave of voices crashing over him. "So let it be." Duncan remained respectfully silent.

With a wave of her hand, one of the Templars on the field below called out the first two names, Ser Kalvin of Denerim and Ser Simon of Redcliffe. Ser Simon was the first to fall, yielding to Ser Kalvin's devastating combination of sword-and-dagger after two rounds. It did not take long for the bouts to blend together, Duncan only truly paying attention when the fighting became most intense. Three warriors in particular caught Duncan's eye, enough so that he supposed that bringing two recruits back with him would not be such a horrible idea. Ser Kalvin, the first fighter he had seen that day. Ser Talrew of Lothering, who Duncan had spoken with earlier that winter when his recruit Ser Gideon had insisted on stopping in the Chantry there before continuing on to Denerim. Ser Eryhn, one of the rare female Templars, who could clearly hold her own against the more physically imposing members of the opposite gender. Her quick deftness with sword and shield more than compensated for any gaps in raw physical strength.

Gradually, the crowds began to clear as those who had been eliminated were removed from the field, and Duncan spotted the face he had been searching for. He leaned against the far wall, garbed in the golden robes of a Chantry initiate instead of a Templar's typical heavy plate. He was thankful that Mother Hannah had held true to her word, but why was he not wearing armor?

"Is something troubling you, Warden?" Ser Glavin asked. "Your face took on such a dour look just now... some refreshment would help, perhaps?"

"I have seen many stout fighters today, Ser Glavin," Duncan replied, "And yet I see one Templar who has yet to be called to the lists."

"Oh? And who..." the Knight-Commander's eyes followed to where Duncan was pointing. "Oh, no. Duncan, trust me when I say you are not interested in recruiting Alistair. He stirs up trouble wherever he goes. From what Ser Herrith of Redcliffe tells me he was brought here by the order of his Revered Mother, but the boy was caught making a mockery of one of our Holy Chanters. Poor Mother Theohild is getting on in years, and sometimes gets confused when she repeats the Chant of Light, and Alistair thought this quite amusing. Ser Herrith was loathe to let him compete in the first place, and decided then that his inability to control his wayward tongue had lost him the opportunity to fight this day."

Duncan scowled. He did not go through all this trouble just to be put off by a Templar's whim. "I came here to find the best of you, not the most polite. I would like to see him fight."

The Grand Cleric turned to join their conversation. "Only the best and most fit of our ranks are suitable for recruitment. Allowing one so lacking in piety to take the field today would be a stain against the honor of the Maker and his Chantry."

"With all due respect, Your Grace," Duncan responded, "It is my task, not yours, to determine who will best serve the ranks of the Grey Wardens. That is why the Right of Conscription is necessary."

Her eyes narrowed. An uneasy fear gripped Duncan's gut, and he hardened his countenance in response. Her Holiness was clearly not used to people countering her decrees. "Very well, Duncan," she relented after an awkward pause. "But do not be surprised if you are disappointed by the initiate's performance."

"We shall see how he fares, and then I shall make my decision." The event had slipped from overdone and pompous to a dangerous power struggle in the blink of an eye. So much for avoiding controversy. He supposed that even the Chantry needed to be reminded now and again that the Grey Wardens have the power to recruit whomever they deem worthy, regardless of how Her High Holiness felt about it.

Ser Glavin whispered to one of the other Templars who flanked him, and he quickly ran off to deliver Duncan's message. Watching intently, he grinned broadly as Alistair turned toward them, shock and confusion written all over his face. The lad needed no further urging. He quickly sprinted off, presumably to arm himself.

"I hope you know what dangerous ground you tread on here, Ser Duncan," Revered Mother Perpetua whispered beside him. "The Grand Cleric does not take kindly to her will being thwarted."

Duncan chuckled wryly. As if he hadn't already noticed that himself. "Your advice is well noted, Your Reverence," he replied, hoping to keep things civil for just a short while longer.

As Alistair returned to the grounds, wearing what looked to be an old and scuffed set of Templar plate, Knight-Commander Glavin addressed the crowd. "We have a late entrant to the competition, per the request of the Warden Commander. Alistair, Initiate of Redcliffe, will join the lists."

A murmur swirled through the crowd. Ser Eryhn approached them, ripping her helmet off in the process, with Ser Kalvin and Ser Talrew hot on her heels. "Knight-Commander, you cannot be serious! Let the boy remain unharmed, for we fight with swords this day, not witty words." The men flanking her made noises of agreement.

Duncan turned toward the knights. "I could recruit the kitchen's lowest scullery maid if I so chose, Ser Eryhn, were I to deem her worthy of the honor. I wish to see what the boy can do. Are you afraid he will best you?"

"I... no, of course not, Warden!" Ser Eryhn glared at him malevolently. "Let it be so then, but we claim no responsibility for any injuries the boy may incur on our behalf." Her counterparts nodded strongly in agreement. "Though I must say," Ser Eryhn shouted as she turned back to the center of the yard, "You are closer than you know to testing the mettle of a scullion!" They all laughed at her joke, but Duncan only scowled. He knew of Alistair's struggles with Chantry authority, but that did not change who he was or his promise to his friend.

The other Templars were downright cruel to Alistair as he sparred with them. They hammered him with everything that they had, oftentimes landing less than honorable blows. No one spoke out in the boy's defense, and yet he persevered. Seemingly in defiance of the treatment he was receiving, he was nothing but courteous to those he did in fact defeat. Where his hand was scorned, he simply smiled and returned to the outer ring. Where his successes were met with anger, Alistair smiled and shrugged, often turning to catch Duncan's eye as he did so. Duncan could not help smiling back, for the lad's joy at being allowed to participate was palatable.

Alistair's strongest opponents did not intend to let the boy with the flippant grin off so easily. Ser Eryhn's graceful dance sent him flying into the dust, while Ser Talrew and Ser Kalvin both managed to outmaneuver and outlast him. Ser Talrew kicked sand over Alistair as he struggled to stand after yielding.

Duncan had seen enough. Even if he hadn't come there to recruit Alistair, his mind had been made up by the actions of his peers.

"I have made my decision," Duncan said, turning to Ser Glavin. "I will recruit Alistair."

The Knight-Commander's face paled. "The impudent boy? Did you not witness what just went before your eyes?"

Almost simultaneously, the Grand Cleric voiced her displeasure as she jumped to her feet. "You cannot have that one, Duncan. I hereby forbid it in the name of Andraste and the Maker!"

"Please, Your Grace, I came here hoping to find a recruit, not start an argument. I do not wish to evoke the Right of Conscription, but I will do so if the situation demands it."

"And just how do you intend to enforce this right, Warden?" she asked. "I believe in this case, King Cailan himself would prefer that the boy remain here. There are... extenuating circumstances, of which you may not be aware."

"I am more aware than you could possibly know, Your Grace." Duncan answered, feeling his voice go quiet. "Will you give Alistair to me willingly, or will I be forced to conscript him?"

The Grand Cleric's face turned a disturbing shade of purple. "Take him then. But do not dare to show yourself at our door again."

Duncan turned, knowing that further words would only more greatly hurt his cause. He walked down the rickety wooden stairs and headed to the center of the practice field. Ser Glavin addressed the crowd as he descended. "The Grey Wardens have decided to recruit Alistair, initiate of Redcliffe Chantry." The assembled Templars were stunned into momentary silence before erupting in angry shouts of protest.

A startled Alistair stood in the center of the yard, staring at him like a frightened deer. He found his voice when Duncan came within ear shot. "But... but I didn't even win the tournament!"

"The tournament was the Grand Cleric's idea, I did not call for it. Nor did I say that recruitment was its prize." Duncan said. It was the first time since Alistair was a baby that he had been able to observe him up close, and it pleased him to see the man that he had grown into. "I came here seeking a warrior who was more than just a fighter. Martial skills can be trained, but character and integrity are inherent. It is my privilege to offer you the chance to become a Grey Warden."

Alistair stared at him, speechless.

"You do wish to accompany me, yes?" Duncan asked quizzically.

"M-More than anything," Alistair stammered.

"Go collect your things, Alistair. It would be best that we leave quickly." He glanced meaningfully at the raised platform. It was empty, but that made his will to leave all the more urgent. "The Grand Cleric did not wish for you to come with me, and it would be best to avoid another scene." He couldn't help but grin a little. It wasn't every day that one stole a mouse out from under the paw of a very large and puffed up cat.

"I swear, if this is a dream and I wake up and you're gone, I'm going to be sorely put out. I might even cry, you know!" Alistair quipped, flashing Duncan a wicked grin.

He bolted from the yard, calling over his shoulder as he went. "I'll be right back! Don't. Move." It was clear that they would both be glad to put this place behind them. Duncan couldn't have asked for a more willing recruit.

One trial complete, one more to go. There was no turning back now. If Fiona was willing to chance his early death instead of allowing him to become a completely vested Templar, so be it. He would put the boy through the Joining, passing his fate into the Maker's hands.

But first, they needed to get away from the Chantry and the Grand Cleric. Little else mattered while they were still within the abbey walls.

.oOo.

  



	9. A Warden's Duty: Part 2

  


  


  


.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Duncan ~

* * *

The nightmares came again in Lothering.

Duncan had not been this close to any masses of Darkspawn for many a year. Usually, one of the newer members of the order who would accompany any potential recruits on their pre-Joining mission, not the Commander of the Grey himself. But Duncan felt it was his responsibility to keep Alistair safe, or as safe as he could given that which they were heading to face.

He tried to calm his breathing, staring up at the ceiling and trying to numb his mind by counting the cracks in the plaster.

"Duncan? Are you alright?" There had only been two rooms available at the tavern, and Alistair had insisted on giving up the bed, claiming that the floor was at least as comfortable as the hard mattress the Chantry had provided.

"Yes, all is well, lad. Go back to sleep. I am sorry to have disturbed you." Duncan rolled over, facing the wall opposite where Alistair's bedroll lie on the floor.

"You sure didn't sound fine, in fact it almost sounded like you were growling at one point."

"Get your rest, Alistair. We want to make good time tomorrow, and the Korcari Wilds are a large place.

"But..." Duncan could hear the concern in his voice, but an unwillingness to offend eventually won. "Well, alright. As you say, Duncan."

He would have to tell the boy eventually. But some things were better learned after the point of no return, in order that ones courage stay strong.

.oOo.

* * *

"Just over that ridge," Duncan said, pointing. "I will cover you from here, but it is up to you three to bring them down."

Alistair spoke up first. "So we just, what, charge up the hill and tap them on the shoulder?"

Ser Gideon barked a short laugh. "You first, we'll be right behind you!" He elbowed Aldemund. "Right Mundy?"

"If you keep making all that noise, it will no longer be an issue," Duncan chided his recruits.

"Lemme go first, I kin sneak up on 'em and mebbe slit the leader's throat. When y'hear the screaming, that's when I'll be looking for my backup, got it?" With that, Aldemund disappeared like a candle being snuffed out, slipping along where patches of shadows fell from the tall trees above.

"Alistair," Duncan turned to the almost-Templar, "when you get close enough, keep an eye to their rear line. If you notice any magic being put to use..."

"Right, right, smite them with the Wrath of the Maker," Alistair quipped. "Because that worked so well the first time."

Duncan sighed. "Still your tongue, lad. Darkspawn are no laughing matter."

"Yes, Duncan," Alistair replied, chastised.

He knocked an arrow in his ironwood bow, a relic he had carried for years after stumbling upon one of the roving tribes of Dalish elves. He had found no suitable recruits, but the Keeper had given him the bow in order to aid the Grey Wardens' cause.

"Don't mind him, ser, he's always had a loose tongue." Gideon had several years on Alistair, and they remembered each other faintly from when Alistair lived in Redcliffe Castle. Duncan had spoken at length with him after bringing Alistair to the compound and, fortunately, the former knight had very little interest in Alistair. It did not seem prudent to inform him of the truth when the it meant so little to him. He could pass that truth along to while in his cups, and the fewer Wardens who knew the better.

An inhuman scream pierced the air.

"Go!" Duncan shouted. The two recruits charged up the hill, just as three grotesque faces became visible above the top of the ridge. Duncan saw both warriors hesitate for a moment too long as they took in the enormity of the hurlock's horrific presence. He quickly let his arrow go, luck holding with him as it buried itself in the monster's right eye. It threw its head back with a unnatural roar of pain.

"Get him!" Duncan quickly grabbed another arrow as the two warriors snapped out of their stupor. Alistair managed to hit the creature upside the head with his shield, and Gideon finished the task, his greatsword, cleaving the beast in two.

There were several more of the monsters; Duncan could sense them beyond the ridge. When Alistair and Gideon vanished out of sight, he skirted around to the left side of the hill, where there appeared to be less undergrowth. He caught a quick glimpse of Aldemund as he stabbed a genlock in the back, before he twisted so quickly that he almost seemed to blur out of sight completely. Assessing the situation, Duncan saw two hurlocks, three genlocks, and an alpha hurlock. He didn't sense any more lurking in the shadows, but he kept his senses sharp. Shrikes often struck out of nowhere, but out of all the Darkspawn Duncan had ever encountered, he had seen those twisted husks of elves the least often.

The genlock that Aldemund had stabbed still stood, not fully incapacitated yet. With two quick shots, one to the gut and one to the throat, Duncan finished off the creature. The recruits had managed to fell both the hurlocks and one of the other genlocks, and all had turned their attention on the alpha. Duncan watched the remaining genlock warily, as it turned tail and ran from the main chaos of the battle...

"Alistair!" Duncan cried out. "The genlock!"

Alistair turned, and in his distraction the alpha knocked him to the ground. Cursing, Duncan aimed for the emissary, missing by a wide margin. They were too late. The genlock cast its spell, a fireball that exploded in their midst and knocked all the combatants to the ground. Alistair managed to get to his knees, and as he did so a rush of air and something more deep and primal exploded from him. The magical flames were quickly extinguished. It _does_ work, Duncan thought, and even while caught in the middle of battle he couldn't help but feel a rush of satisfaction.

It was not long before the genlock began circling its glowing hands while chanting gutturally. This time, Alistair was ready. Something akin to a bolt of lightning fell from the sky, hitting the genlock and throwing him to the ground. Alistair charged, and within a few moments he felled the creature. Duncan turned his attention back to the other two fighters, just in time to see Gideon lop off the alpha's grotesquely large head.

"Quickly, before the blood stops flowing," Duncan instructed. "Take the vials I gave you and fill them . Get some from the alpha and the emissary, if you can." He wasn't positive that it made a difference, but whenever possible he preferred to use the blood of a more powerful Darkspawn in the Joining ritual. In his experience, fewer recruits died when he was able to take this extra precautionary step, but he could hardly mention that now. It was far too early for them to know the truth.

Gideon and Alistair came to him first, each holding a small container of dark red blood. "Well, since that gruesome task is done," Alistair said with a grin, "What's next? Do we all join hands and sing the traditional Grey Warden bonding song?"

Duncan shot Alistair a look. "Hardly. We return to camp, and tomorrow we head back with all haste to Denerim." He glanced around, looking for the third recruit. Aldemund was on his way, but appeared to have taken a bad wound to the leg. He hobbled over to where the others had gathered.

"Bloody bastard bit me," the once-sailor grumbled.

Duncan's heart sank, but he quickly steeled himself to what needed to be done. "Gideon, find a bandage kit from my pack. Alistair, come with me." Duncan drew the knife from his belt as he hurried toward Aldemund. "We are going to need to cut off as much of the skin as we can where he was bitten. It will improve his chances of making it back to Denerim with his sanity intact."

"My what?" Aldemund said, clearly disturbed.

"We cannot chance the Taint getting into your blood," Duncan replied. He could not be sure that they would return to Denerim in time for the Joining to slow the Taint's progression, if he had indeed been infected by the Darkspawn's bite. By that time he could be too far gone, and there would be nothing to do but put the poor man out of his misery.

"Lie down here, Aldemund." Duncan gestured to a flat patch of ground. "I would suggest finding a stout stick to bite down on. This will not be pleasant."

"Eh, can't be as bad as when t'pirates cut off one o'my toes and fed it to the sharks."

Alistair looked shocked at Aldemund's words. "Most Grey Wardens have colorful pasts, Alistair," Duncan said as he tested the edge of his knife. "Do not look so alarmed."

"But Duncan, he was a pirate! Is that the type of person that the Wardens should be bringing into their ranks?"

"It is my job, not yours, to decide who will and who will not make a suitable recruit."

The boy looked embarrassed, and slammed his mouth shut. "As you say, Duncan."

"Besides, I weren't ever no pirate," Aldemund interjected. "They kidnapped me, they did! Took me from the docks when I was too small to fight them off, and put me to work as a cabin boy. I left their lot behind in my wake as soon as I was good enough to slip away. So you can take your pirate talk and shove it up yer arse, self-righteous Chantry mouse."

Alistair turned red but said nothing, looking nervously at Duncan.

"Now," Duncan continued, "I will need you to hold down Aldemund's arms. Gideon," he said, taking the bandages from the other man, "I need you to hold down his legs."

Gideon simply nodded.

The whole operation took longer than Duncan would have liked, but in the end he removed the blackening flesh from Aldemund's leg and stitched him back up with a bit of sinew from the bandage kit. "We may want to look to see if there are any caravans headed to Denerim when we arrive back in Lothering. Depending on how well Aldemund heals before we get there, it may be prudent for him to ride back if possible."

"Don't you worry about me none, Duncan," Aldemund said between gasping breaths. "I'll keep up,"

Duncan wasn't so sure, but it was not worth fighting about. "We shall see." He stood, offering Aldemund a hand. Aldemund struggled to his feet clumsily, wincing in pain whenever he put weight on his injured leg. "This is not the time for heroics, Aldemund."

Aldemund grunted in reply.

"When we get back to camp I have a poultice we can put over that, which will help it heal faster." With that, he turned to face all three recruits. "Bring me the vials I asked you all to fill." Duncan commanded.

The recruits each handed him their gory containers of Darkspawn blood. He poured each vial of blood into a much larger flask, a layer of lyrium dust lining its bottom. The vial began glowing bright blue as the blood soaked into the finely ground ore, which forced him to squeeze his eyes shut. When the light faded he opened them, and he saw that the blood had turned a deep reddish-purple color.

"We must not dally on our way back to Denerim. The lyrium will preserve the blood, but only for a short while. A month at most, if we're lucky. But right now we need to return to camp. Night will be upon us sooner than I would like, and there is one group of Darkspawn there are bound to be more."

This was half a lie, but Duncan knew that just because he did not sense any Darkspawn at present, that would not prevent the fiends from appearing. "Come." The recruits fell in line behind him, and for once, they remained blissfully silent.

.oOo.

* * *

He started awake yet again in a cold sweat. It had to be the proximity to the Darkspawn that was causing the nightmares. They had been spotted now and again in the Korcari Wilds for over a decade, and even with the efforts of his Grey Wardens their numbers appeared to be growing. Duncan shuddered. This time, the dream had been through an emissary's eyes, and he had watched as the creature cast a spell that shook the very roots of the earth. A giant slab of granite fell away, almost caving in the whole tunnel, but when the dust cleared it appeared that there was space at the top of the pile of rubble where the horde could continue digging. And dig they did...

If they were still digging, that meant that they had not yet unearthed the archdemon. Duncan tried to take some small consolation in that, while ignoring the fact that the intoxicating song he had heard sounded much louder than it had in his previous dream.

The dream had left him fully awake and unwilling to go back to sleep, so he hastily put on his armor and stepped out of his tent. Alistair sat with his back to what was left of the fire, staring out into the darkness.

"Go get some sleep, lad," Duncan told the boy. "I won't be sleeping much more tonight."

Alistair turned toward him, looking concerned. "More bad dreams?"

Duncan cleared his throat. "I would appreciate it were you not to speak of my nightmares to the other men. We shall speak more of them later, presuming... we shall speak more of them later."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Duncan regarded the boy. Visually, there was so little of his mother in him, and yet one did not become a healer mage if one did not at least have a greater than average empathy for others. Perhaps it was just easy to overlook when all he could see in Alistair's face was Maric with a Templar-issued haircut.

"You can go get some sleep, so that I only have to worry about Aldemund setting our pace in the morning."

"No, no, you're doing that all wrong," Alistair shook his head.

Duncan was taken aback. "Wrong? How so?"

"It should be something more like..." Alistair cleared his throat. "'Don't worry about me, Alistair. You know me, I survive on burnt stew fumes and elfroot tea. Sleep is optional.'" He spoke in a ridiculously low and gruff voice, and Duncan couldn't help but crack a small smile.

"But I am not you," Duncan replied, trying to return his typical mask of seriousness to his face. "I know that not all things that happen to me should be twisted into self-depreciating humor."

Alistair winced, then chuckled. "Ow! Got me pegged, now don't you?"

"There is a lot of your father in you," Duncan said, curious to see what the lad's reaction would be. His typical beaming grin fell away. "You carry yourself, and your tongue," he amended ruefully, "very much like him."

Alistair paused a moment before replying. "So you know about that, do you? My father, I mean."

"I do. But rest assured, I have not made this common knowledge among the other Grey Wardens."

He let out a relieved sigh. "Thank the Maker for small mercies then."

The night noises filled the air around them, and they sat for several minutes, saying nothing.

"Go on, lad, get some sleep," Duncan urged.

"Alright, alright, I'll go..." Alistair stood, his splintmail creaking as he moved. "Good night, Duncan."

Duncan simply nodded, tossing a another log onto the fire.

Alistair paused before entering his tent. "Answer me this, Duncan." He heard the boy swallow before continuing. "Is that why you recruited me? Because of... because of my father?"

"No," Duncan answered. It was a true statement, but one that cut too close to the deeper truth that he knew his friend did not want shared.

"But you knew about me being his son before you made your decision."

"I did."

He could not tell if the boy was pleased with or upset by that answer. "Thank you for being honest with me, Duncan. Good night."

Honesty has many faces, Duncan thought as Alistair disappeared into his tent. When ones loyalties are split, honesty can rapidly mutate into a very beautiful lie.

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Alistair ~

* * *

They were about a day south of South Reach when the small group of Grey Wardens caught up with their little party. Duncan had sent word ahead from Lothering, requesting that someone from Denerim meet them on the road. It had sounded to Alistair as if the other Wardens were going to bring certain supplies they would need for this Joining that they all had to go through.

Whatever this Joining entailed, Duncan sure wasn't sharing much about it. He knew about the ritual surrounding the Templar's taking his vows in the Chantry. By day there would be a ceremony involving the Grand Cleric, and that would be their official "joining". By night, the older Templars had their own version of a joining ritual, which Alistair knew little about save that the participants woke the next afternoon with pounding headaches and looking as if they'd fallen down the side of a mountain. But Duncan seemed far too serious to allow anything like _that_ to happen.

Alistair's focus turned back to reality as he saw three men on horseback approaching them, one in typical Grey Warden splintmail and two wearing mage robes. Their leader hailed them as he pulled his horse to a stop. Were these the Wardens that had answered Duncan's missive? Duncan greeted the leader warmly as he climbed down off his horse, thus confirming their identities. "Riordan, what a surprise. I did not know you had returned to Ferelden"

"I had just arrived a day before your message did, Duncan." The man spoke with a definite Orlesian accent, but was easy to understand. "The Wardens in Montsimmard sent me here, to learn more of this increased Darkspawn activity in the south you reported ."

"Well, we didn't quite have time to do a thorough survey of the entire area, but it sure didn't take us long to find them." Duncan replied. He paused, a questioning glare passing over his face. "You brought the horses with you, I presume?"

"We did," Riordan said with a grin. "I know that Fereldens look down on them, but I wasn't about to leave them behind to satisfy some provincial aversion..."

"Indeed," Duncan agreed. "They will be most useful to those who go scouting in the Wilds."

"Speaking of which, have there been any indications that this is more than just a few unorganized bands?" Riordan asked, a hint of nervousness in his tone.

"Right now, it appears to be a lot of small groups, with little to no direction. The Wilds are a big place however, difficult to traverse and mostly uncharted." Duncan stroked his beard as he spoke. "Some part of me wonders if there wasn't some kind of a cave-in somewhere, that opened up a way into the Deep Roads. That would certainly explain why we have been hearing reports of Darkspawn in this area for over a decade now. There was even an ogre once."

"But there are more now, or so your reports said," Riordan replied.

"From what I've been able to see, yes. But there has been no sign of an Archdemon emerging either. We will want to send scouts deeper into the Wilds, to determine the extent of their numbers. If this is not a Blight, we will need to find out where the beasts are coming from and put an end to it."

"Maker preserve us all if..." Riordan cleared his throat, then dropped the subject. "All of the Wardens stationed in Jader have accompanied me here. Few as we are, we will do all we can to help bolster your numbers. But, we must first get you and your new recruits back to Denerim, so that we can discuss strategy." The Orlesian Warden raised an eyebrow in question. "Do you often accompany your new recruits on their first mission, Duncan? In Jader, that's usually the responsibility of a junior Warden..."

"No, not usually, but I..." Alistair caught Duncan's gaze slipping to him for a split second. "I wished to assess the situation in the Wilds myself, if only to measure just how deep we would have to go into them in order to find Darkspawn."

It was a lie, Alistair was sure of it. He sighed and looked away from the other men, examining the bark on a nearby tree. Until that point, he had figured that they were under Duncan's watch because it was what he always did. He _was_ the main recruiter for the order in Ferelden, so it had made sense. Now Alistair just felt angry about the whole thing. He was being protected, again, simply for being who he was. But now was not the time to voice his grievances, not in front of all the other Wardens.

"Come," Alistair turned his attention back to the Orlesian warden, doing his best to avoid looking at Duncan, "Let plan on camping here for the night. Elderic and Henri can prepare the chalice for the Joining, and we can set up camp once all is complete."

Duncan nodded. "Indeed. We should commence the Joining as soon as possible."

Alistair felt his stomach clench with worry as they made their way off of the main road to a nearby clearing. Duncan was a reserved man, but had never seen him wear his mask of formality this firmly. What was he hiding from them? He supposed it didn't matter at this point, whatever it was. What was he going to do, turn tail and run back to the Chantry? Hardly. Whatever this Joining was, it was clear that all in the Grey Warden ranks had faced it and come out seemingly no worse for the wear. There was no reason to be so... no, not frightened, he chided himself. Concerned. Yes, that was a much better word.

His Templar trained senses tingled as the two mages worked. They added the lyrium-preserved Darkspawn blood to a large chalice that they had brought with them. Several other unidentifiable reagents went into the cup, along with more lyrium, the prepared type this time rather than the raw ground ore. One cast a brief spell, which made the cup glow momentarily, before passing the cup to Duncan with a slight bow.

"You know that the binding spell is not truly necessary for the potion to have its effect, yes?" Duncan asked as he accepted the cup.

"We do," the right-hand mage responded. "But we like to take no chances. Some of the elements do not hold to the solution for very long."

"As you say." The other Wardens had formed a loose semi-circle, with Duncan at its head. "Gideon, Alistair, Aldemund, join us here and complete the circle, please. We are prepared to begin the Joining.

Alistair looked askance at his soon-to-be brothers, for all that they were such opposites of one another. One had been sworn as a knight, the other raised as a pirate. He had tried to take Duncan's words to heart, but it hadn't been easy.

"Guess we get to find out what the big secret is," Alistair said with forced joviality. "It must be something juicy, otherwise they surely would have told us by now."

Gideon smiled wainly. Aldemund frowned. "Still time to turn tail run back to the Chantry, boy."

"Right, like they'd just welcome me back with open arms," Alistair replied. "I think I'll stay a Warden, thanks."

Aldemund smirked. "If they still keep you after this test thing. I doubt it involves unspoken favors to lonely priests."

"The Chantry isn't like that at all, except in your twisted little brain." Alistair was thankful when they were finally lined up in formation as Duncan had asked. "Sure'd be more interesting if it was," he muttered. Aldemund chuckled.

"We come to the Joining," Duncan intoned. "The Grey Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when they learned to master the Taint of the Darkspawn. By drinking their tainted blood, the first Grey Wardens became who they were, and every Grey Warden that came after them followed suit. This is the task that is set before you today."

Alistair stared at the goblet in Duncan's hands. He heard Gideon gasp. "You can't be serious, Duncan," the ex-knight beside him said.

"All Grey Wardens must survive the Joining. It is what makes us who we are, and from where we draw our power."

"Creepy," Alistair muttered.

"But necessary, Alistair," Duncan replied firmly. "We will discuss more with those who survive the Joining."

"Y'mean, that filth could kill us?" Aldemund asked. "Well, guess now's a good a time as any."

"Speak for yourself," Gideon said. He swallowed audibly, but narrowed his gaze. "All right then, Duncan, lets get this over with."

Duncan nodded solemnly. "Since the first, we have spoken but a few words at this ceremony," He turned to the leader of the Orlesian Wardens. "Riordan, would you do the honors?"

Riordan bowed his head in acquiescence, clearing his throat quietly before beginning. "Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

Any duty can be foresworn, Alistair thought as he glanced sidelong at Aldemund. It only takes your character being tarnished enough. He couldn't help feeling proud of himself, if only a little. Better his duty consist of killing monsters than killing mages. He would never foreswear his duty, not if he had any say in the matter.

"Gideon, you are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint," Duncan intoned, handing him the cup. Gideon's face had turned as white as a sheet, and the goblet shook as he held it to his lips. Not long after Duncan took the cup back from him, he began to shake in earnest, stumbling as he tried to keep to his feet. An awful gagging noise escaped him as he doubled over, clutching at his stomach. All Alistair could do was stare in horror, glancing at Duncan's stony face now and again. He threw his head back before falling to the ground, and his eyes were rolled back so completely into his head that all that was visible were the whites. He did not move again.

"I am sorry, Gideon," Duncan muttered.

This certainly did not bode well for those next in line, Alistair thought.

Duncan turned to Aldemund, handing him the goblet. "Aldemund, you are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint."

The ex-sailor took the chalice from Duncan, hastily swallowed a swig from it, and handed the cup back to the senior Warden. Nothing happened for several tense moments, then all of a sudden Aldemund's legs gave out from under him and he fell to the ground, a feeble groan escaping his lips.

Duncan placed his first two fingers along Aldemund's throat. "He shall live. He fell as a man, and shall awaken as a Grey Warden."

Alistair swallowed nervously. It was clear that Duncan was trying to keep him out of true danger. If that was true, what possessed him to think that this was a good idea? Keeping him from dying could not be his primary objective if he was willing to force him to drink poison. Was this King Cailan's doing? Was he peacefully trying to remove what he saw as a threat to his and Anora's rule? How could he have known of this Joining, given what lengths the Wardens seemed to go to keep its details private?

"Alistair," Duncan said as he approached, handing the goblet over as he spoke. "You are called upon to submit yourself to the Taint." The chalice was cold in his hands, the liquid inside a strange shade somewhere between black and purple. He met eyes with Duncan, and there seemed to be something less confident there than he'd hoped to find. Duncan was worried. It occurred to him that in the short time he had known him, he had not yet seen Duncan truly worried about something.

"Well," Alistair said, trying to put on a brave face, "Here's to the Grey Wardens. May their other parties be merrier." Lifting the glass slightly as if to make a toast, he smiled a bit as he saw the reactions of the other Wardens. Duncan's expression remained unchanged.

There was no turning back now. Alistair lifted the chalice to his lips and drained what was left in the cup. It was all he could do to not spit the vile liquid back out again. What pushed him over the edge was Duncan, standing there and looking at him, waiting to see how he would react. The potion burned as it went down, all the way from the back of his mouth down to his stomach. He didn't even remember Duncan taking the chalice from him, but his hands were empty when they went to clutch at his head. A violent headache overtook him, so much that he couldn't even think...

And then all went black.

.oOo.

  



	10. A Warden's Duty: Part 3

  


  


  


.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Duncan ~

* * *

The scrolls were held shut by a leather band and a pewter gryphon clasp. Eventually, when their numbers had grown, Duncan supposed he should have the records bound into a book. For now, the Ferelden Wardens were so few in number that the bundle of scrolls sufficed. Fewer than Duncan would have liked had been recruited over the past twenty years, especially since they had lost too many investigating the Darkspawn threat in the Wilds, but keeping their numbers low had seemed politically expedient. Many of the nobility still remembered a time when the Grey Wardens were banished from Ferelden, and still more saw them as an Orlesian faction rather than a neutral one. But times were changing, and if they were indeed facing the possibility of a Blight, the Wardens would need to increase their numbers and quickly.

Unfurling the scrolls, he found the most recent one and began writing.

 _Joined: 8 Molioris 9:30  
Aldemund of Denerim, a sailor and master of street lore_   
_Alistair of Redcliffe, an initiate of the Chantry Templars_

 _Called: 8 Molioris 9:30  
Gideon, a knight of Redcliffe_

It was a horrible euphemism, but it was traditional to list in their records those who died in the Joining as such a manner. He supposed it was yet another measure to keep the workings of the Joining ritual a secret, but even that seemed excessive when the whole document was written in cipher. No outsider eyes would be picking it up for a casual read. Traditions often made little sense, Duncan knew, and it was not his place to change meaningless things which had been done for many ages.

The same names he had just recorded would be sent to Weisshaupt in an official bi-annual correspondence around Midsummer's Day. Whether or not he should send a personal letter to Fiona weighed on him, but it would make more sense to send such a missive along with the report rather than paying to have one piece of parchment shipped a thousand miles to Weisshaupt in the interim. He would be sure to apologize to her for keeping the news.

Summer had come early this year to Ferelden. The time he spent on the road with the recruits had been pretty much the only vestige of spring they had been granted, for the heat arrived not long after they returned to Denerim. A summer foray into the hot, muggy Wilds was not something he envied Riordan and those accompanying him, but it was truly the only time of year that such an undertaking could occur. To attempt such a task in winter would have been suicidal.

Only a handful of Wardens would be remaining in Denerim. Duncan himself planned to put out the word that the Grey Wardens were seeing recruits, and he hoped that at least a few new members would arise from those who answered the call. But this was no substitute for searching on his own, with his own two eyes. Perhaps later this summer, after he had spent time with the newer recruits...

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Yes?"

The door creaked open just wide enough for a head to slip inside the room. Alistair peered through the doorway, looking troubled. "Can I talk to you, Duncan?"

"Of course. Come in, lad." Duncan gestured to the seat in front of his large desk. "Have a seat."

Alistair did as he was bade, saying nothing for an awkward moment. "Is something troubling you?" Duncan asked.

"Why can't I go with Riordan on the scouting mission?" The boy's eyes and tone left no illusion about how he felt about the matter.

"It is not your place to question the decisions of the senior Wardens, Alistair," Duncan crossed his arms, working to keep his face stony even as he felt a pang of sympathy. "I would have thought the Chantry taught you better."

"But this isn't the Chantry, Duncan," Alistair argued. "I'm not a Grey Warden initiate or something like that. I survive the Joining. Doesn't that make me a full Grey Warden?"

"In name, yes. In reality... things are not so simple, Alistair," He relaxed his arms and leaned forward in his chair. "Even if there are no official ranks, you will still be seen as a junior Warden for some time. You will be expected to fulfill more of a support role rather than one who fights on the front lines."

"Oh? Then why is Aldemund going? He's as junior as I am, save the span of about half a minute."

"Aldemund is older and more experienced than you are, and..." Duncan fumbled through his thoughts for something that would not wound the boy's pride too much. "...you must continue your training. As skilled as you are, becoming a Grey Warden does not automatically make you a seasoned warrior."

"So my training was good enough for me to bash and smite Darkspawn, but not good enough to be let out of your sight?" Alistair scowled as he spoke. The boy made Duncan feel older than he was whenever he looked at him, but he could not forget just how very young Alistair truly was.

"Do not be in such a rush for battle, lad, especially against these monsters. A Grey Warden's life is short enough without actively seeking death."

The boy looked puzzled. "What do you mean by that?"

Duncan sighed. "I suppose you have a right to know. You would find out from the others in time." He leaned back in his chair, watching Alistair closely. "The Joining allows us to take in the taint of the Darkspawn without quickly becoming corrupted by its influence. But its effects are still with us, every day, every moment, until we die." He knew of one way to cleanse a person of the taint, but it didn't apply to himself or Alistair. Or at least, it did not apply directly, given Alistair's involvement in the events of twenty years past. "It will eventually corrupt us, turning us into inhuman monsters like yet unlike the Darkspawn. The dwarves call such men 'ghouls'. This transformation generally takes at least twenty years, but some are fortunate and make it to almost thirty."

Alistair's face fell. "So, you're saying... I probably won't live past fifty."

"We pay a heavy price to become what we are, Alistair," Duncan said grimly. "Most Grey Wardens travel to the Deep Roads before the transformation is complete. They die willingly, fighting and killing Darkspawn rather than letting the taint consume them fully. If you hear any of the others speaking of their Calling, this is that which they refer to."

"I... yes, Duncan. I understand."

 _No boy_ , Duncan thought, _you truly don't. But you will in time._

"Blast it all Duncan, then you truly have no reason not to let me fight!" Alistair had found his anger again. It was certainly easier to yell and rage in the face of fear than to meet it head on. "If I'm doomed to die anyway, then what does it matter?"

"It matters because we must not waste resources. And lives are the most important resources we have."

"So why is Aldemund's life less important than mine?"

Duncan sighed. "This again. Alistair, please..."

"No," Alistair said, hitting his fist on Duncan's desk. "You're just like everyone else, treating me differently and trying to protect me just because of my father!"

Duncan narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't matter anymore Alistair. I've told you this."

"That's what you want me to think, and yet your actions speak otherwise."

"This isn't about your father, no matter how much you want to make it be." Duncan rubbed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts, and decided to try a different approach. "Have you been having strange dreams, Alistair?"

Alistair's eyes widened in shock. "Well... yes, some nights. What does that-"

"Those dreams are a part of being a Grey Warden. The Darkspawn are fairly ineffectual by themselves, but as a horde they can communicate by tapping into a bond formed by the taint. Their minds become one, and they are both more dangerous and easier for more powerful Darkspawn to control. When we sleep, our minds as well can tap into that energy, and we can see what they see, feel what they feel."

"Creepy."

"Quite, but sometimes useful as well." Duncan stroked his beard. "These dreams come on strongly soon after one's Joining, so it does not surprise me that you have had them. You will learn to block them out, eventually."

"Is that... well, no, that would be silly. You've been a Grey Warden for, uh, well for awhile now," Alistair looked uncomfortably at Duncan. "Why would you still be having them?"

"When one's Calling is approaching the dreams return."

The room was quiet as Alistair considered Duncan's words. "That's why you didn't want to tell me before. You didn't want us to think you were..."

"I also did not want to discuss the less positive side to being a Grey Warden before the Joining. Especially with Aldemund. He could have easily bolted in the night, and spread our secrets to all that would listen."

"Are... are you okay, Duncan? Is there anything that can be done to help?"

"No, lad, there isn't. But my time here is not wholly done yet. My point in telling you this is that a Grey Warden's duty can go beyond slaying Darkspawn. Someone must give the orders, organize the men, and deal with outsiders. You have a natural charisma that I think would be most helpful to me and my recruiting efforts. Even you must admit that Aldemund is not the face that I would want in a position like that, yes?"

"Well," Alistair relented, "when you put it _that_ way..."

"My work here is far from finished. And my dreams... they tell me that the Darkspawn are close to unearthing an Old God. I should not need to tell one with a Chantry education what that means."

"A Blight," Alistair muttered darkly. "Holy Maker..."

"If I simply wished a glorious death in battle, I could find one. But my duties are not that straightforward."

"Whatever you need me to do, Duncan, just say the word."

"Right now I want you to return to the training yard."

"Yes, Duncan," Alistair said, rising from his seat and bowing in salute.

"Oh, and Alistair?" Duncan called as the boy headed toward the door. "Kindly do not spread what we spoke of here to the other men. I do not want to cause a panic by creating rumors."

"Of course, Duncan. As you say."

Duncan sighed as his study door clicked shut. He hated lying to the boy, but had he truly lied? It was more as if a pleasant veneer had been placed over a less attractive truth. King Cailan had summoned Duncan to a private audience at the palace not long after Alistair's recruitment. The Revered Mother had been correct that Cailan wished for Alistair to stay in the ranks of the Chantry. He was none too pleased with his bastard-brother becoming a Grey Warden. As it turned out, King Cailan was not of a mind to remove Alistair from the line of succession just yet even if it was a tenuous claim at best. It was the will of the king that Alistair remain out of harm's way, at least for the time being. The King would have only been vexed if he had explained how in so many ways a Grey Warden would make a terrible royal heir, so he refrained from sharing such details. To keep the peace, Duncan had agreed to the king's wishes. He would keep the boy close and as safe as he could from harm.

Duncan hated politics and intrigue, but he understood the reasoning behind such things. It was not so different from surviving on the streets as a penniless urchin. Say the right words, be in the right place at the right time, set the right traps. Slitting purses and stealing food however were much more straightforward in nature, and less deadly at the end of the day.

.oOo.

* * *

For about the next month or so, Duncan had his hands full sorting through the volunteers that flooded the Grey Warden's Denerim headquarters. Many thought his decisions arbitrary, scoffing as he turned away large burly warriors for wiry dagger wielders on one occasion, and then turning around and accepting a knight who could heft a blade nearly as tall as himself.

But Duncan knew that a Grey Warden was more than some muscle and a bit of sharpened metal. It was also why he knew that he would need to head out on a recruiting mission soon, for oftentimes the best and the brightest could only be found in the most unlikely places. Elves and other common folk often proved to be too intimidated by societal pressures to show up at martial affairs. And then there was the discomfort the higher echelons of society exhibited by shuffling in their seats when peasants start wielding arms openly.

It was an unpleasantly hot day in early Justinian when Duncan received a message from Teyrn Cousland of Highever. It seemed the Teyrn had taken it upon himself to call a tournament "for the Honor of the Grey Wardens" two months hence. Duncan rubbed his forehead in frustration. These events tended to bring him recruits that more often than not died in the Joining, and were most often a waste of time for all involved. But to offend one of the highest ranking nobles in all of Ferelden would hurt their cause greatly. He would just have to make sure to stop in Amaranthine, and perhaps some extra stops at smaller farm holds along the North Road, in order to offset the bother of keeping the peace.

Duncan folded the parchment and placed it within his desk drawer before heading down to the training yard. Quietly, he found one of the shaded benches along the wall and sat down. Two of the new voluntary recruits were sparring, and Duncan feigned interest in the proceedings. His thoughts lingered on this proposed tournament in Highever, and how best to politely word his response to the teyrn. It was then that he remembered the stories he heard about Teyrn Cousland's youngest from the times when King Cailan invited him to the palace for various feasts and celebrations. A fierce fighter, they said in public, but in whispers they spoke of her more bawdy tendencies. She had dallied with enough noble's sons that her exploits seemed to be common knowledge, and people wondered how the teyrn and teyrna would find her a suitable match. If the girl, or perhaps woman by this point, was as good of a fighter as the tales said, recruiting her could offer the Couslands a way to preserve their honor. A delicate matter for certain, but perhaps one that Duncan could use to his advantage. Though he supposed the tales of the girl's prowess with a blade could well be exaggerated, as could the stories of her other exploits. Good recruits were hard to find however, and he knew he would consider the matter further the closer he got to Highever.

Shouting some encouragement to one and a bit of advice to the other, Duncan turned his attention back to the center of the yard. There would need to be another Joining to test the mettle of the six recruits Duncan had chosen to keep around, and soon. The sooner the ceremony, the sooner the less fortunate would cease being a strain on Grey Warden's resources.

.oOo.

* * *

It was a strangely temperate day in early August when the typical background din of the Grey Warden compound was broken by the sound of hoof beats. The Orlesian Warden wasted no time in hunting down Duncan to share his findings.

"Duncan," Riordan said brusquely as he entered the Fereldan Commander's study. "I bring grave news."

"Sit down Riordan," Duncan replied. "What have you and your men found?"

"The Darkspawn appear to be gathering deep in the Korcari Wilds. Thousands of them. We were not able to detect the presence of an Archdemon, but numbers of their size cannot be ignored, Blight or no."

Duncan leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard, absorbing all which Riordan had just shared. "Grim news indeed."

"We must appeal to the King, and muster whatever forces we can. Your numbers are far too few here to defend against that which we saw."

"Obviously," Duncan replied, silently cursing himself for not recruiting more Wardens sooner than this. "I shall request an audience with the king. May the Maker's hand let it come sooner than later."

"You are friendly with King Cailan, yes?"

"It's a much more... simple relationship than that, Riordan. The King is a young man, brought up on tales of glory and adventure, several of which involved his father. When he learned that I was one of the Grey Wardens that traveled with King Maric to the Deep Roads... well, let's just say that the king sees me more as a hero from a tale than a warrior."

"Hopefully that will work to our advantage, then," Riordan said with a slight smirk.

"No doubt you wish to return to Orlais and spread the word to the other Wardens."

"I would prefer it, but I will accompany you to see the king, if you think my words will help sway him." Riordan replied.

"It certainly would be preferable to have first-hand information, but I do not wish to keep you for long. Let us see how quickly King Cailan is willing to grant us an audience. I will draft him a letter this afternoon and have it delivered to the palace immediately."

A response from the palace arrived early the next morning, in the form of King Cailan and his royal entourage presenting themselves on the threshold of the Grey Warden's keep. Duncan heard the fanfare from the dining hall long before one of the gate guards came to fetch him.

"Commander," the winded guard managed to gasp out. "The King himself is here to see you!"

"Is that what that racket was?" Alistair asked with a slight grin. "I had thought a circus had arrived in town."

Duncan shot him a glare. "You and your tongue will mind themselves, Alistair. I will deal with the king."

Alistair snorted. "By all means. I wasn't in the mood to be looked down upon this morning anyway."

Duncan sighed to himself as he followed the guard out into the courtyard, where the king and approximately a dozen armored guards glittered in the morning sunlight. The crowd parted so that Cailan could approach and greet the Warden Commander, his golden armor almost painfully bright. Behind him, in distinctly less shiny armor, walked Teyrn Loghain, the General of Ferelden's forces and adviser to the king.

"Ho, Duncan! I came as soon as I was able. Please know that the might of Ferelden is at your beck and call." Calian's face seemed to beam brightly enough as to rival his armor. Teyrn Loghain sighed audibly, but said nothing.

"We have much to discuss, Your Majesty," Duncan said soberly. "Perhaps we should retire to my study?"

"As you wish."

"Your men are welcome to join the rest of us in the dining hall." Duncan turned to the guard. "See that the cook provides for them. Also, find Riordan and send him to my study." Most of the guards and pages that lived in the compound were not Grey Wardens, but either hired from the local populace or provided by the king. The soldier nodded, saluted, and headed off. "If you would follow me, Your Majesty?"

At least the king's enthusiasm boded well for getting the troops they would need. Whether or not such youthful exuberance would help them on the field of battle... that, Duncan was not so sure about.

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Alistair ~

* * *

Not long after the King's soldiers started filing into the dining hall, Alistair took his breakfast dishes and placed them on the table from which the cook would collect them later. He knew rationally that no one would recognize him, but the thought made him uncomfortable nonetheless. Slipping out one of the side entrances, Alistair made his way to his room, avoiding any passageway that would bring him close to the main courtyard or to Duncan's study.

Technically, he was supposed to be heading to the yard for his morning training session, but now that His Radiant Majesty was here, he knew the session would be canceled. Even if it wasn't, he didn't intend on attending and being accused of seeking Cailan's attention. The Wardens weren't nearly as judgmental as the Templar initiates had been, but it was best to be on the safe side. If he didn't interact with anyone, no one could accuse him of doing anything untoward in the King's presence.

The room he had been given was small, but certainly more spacious than the monastery cells provided to full Templars. It contained a bed, a small dresser, a table and a chair, and even a window high up along the outer wall to let in light. The dresser came with a small mirror and washbasin for shaving, which Alistair made sure to make use of every morning. It was as he was shaving that he decided how he was going to spend his morning. Ever since it was clear that he would be staying in Denerim away from his former peers, Alistair promised himself that he would finally do some investigating into what had happened to his mother. The Chantry kept fairly detailed records of births, deaths, and marriages, and copies of all local chantry archives were sent to Denerim's North Abbey on a yearly basis. Records from Redcliffe would certainly be there, but tracking down one specific record within could be a difficult task. He wasn't even sure just what he hoped to find, but there had to be something there that would help clarify all the rumors he heard as a child.

Removing his standard Grey Warden issue spintmail from the armor stand next to his bed, Alistair dressed himself before heading out to the streets of Denerim. Not that things were truly unsafe, of course, but it never hurt to be careful. He strapped a small pouch containing what little he could afford to spend at his waist. It would not do to show up at the Chantry and ask for their assistance while neglecting to leave at least a small tithe. He had heard too many of the Sisters complaining over the years about people not in dire straits asking for Chantry services and not leaving a "proper" tithe. He was certain that he was still a topic of gossip in Chantry circles, even all these months later, and there was no need to add more vitriol to the tales.

Cautiously, Alistair headed back out into the hallway. He approached the main courtyard carefully, trying to put on airs of someone not-nervous and who had every right to be there. Which he did, he supposed. His luck held, for Cailan had not yet returned from his meeting with Duncan. Some of the royal guards stood at various levels of attention around the yard, two of which flanked the compound's entrance along with the typical pair of hired guards kept there by the Wardens.

The guard on the left nodded as he passed by. "Alistair," he said in simple greeting. The royal guardsman standing next to the Warden's guard raised an eyebrow at Alistair's name, but said nothing.

"Reginold," Alistair said, returning the greeting. "I'll be back later, since it seems that everything's gone to the Black City in a hand basket this morning."

Reginold chuckled. "Aye, that it has."

"If anyone asks for me, tell them I went to the Market District and plan to be back sometime this afternoon. Hopefully Duncan's esteemed company will have moved on to its next shiny distraction by then."

Reginold smiled, nodding smartly in reply. Cailan's guardsman squinted his eyes in disdain, but still did not speak. Alistair wondered just what would spread from that particular conversation, but he didn't much care. So long as it was clear he was avoiding Cailan and not seeking out his favor, he couldn't care less what was gossip resulted.

The day promised to be hot, though the breeze that played through the streets from off the Amaranthine Ocean did help mitigate things a little. Alistair made his way through the city, eventually crossing the Drakon River and heading into the heart of Denerim's Market District. It was impossible to make it through the market without doing at least a little dream-shopping, for between the stalls selling fabrics, perfumes, and crockery there were ones selling weapons and armor. Alistair wondered if the sculptor that Arl Eamon used to frequent was still in business, the one from whom he purchased the gifts he gave to Alistair when he was young.

Alistair spent more time than he intended examining the wares of an old, grizzled dwarf who was hawking various bits of weaponry and suits of armor he had crafted. He told himself that it was because he admired the craftsmanship of the items, but the fact that the smith employed his oddly compelling daughter to work the counter probably had something to do with it as well. His ears seemed to burn every time she looked at him, and Alistair felt something akin to relief when he finally was able to tear himself away from the man's stall. By the Maker, he shouldn't be thinking such thoughts about anyone, let alone a dwarf he didn't know, let alone one who's _father_ was standing _right there._ He bumped roughly into someone as he turned away, muttered an apology, and decided the best thing to do would be to head to the chantry straight away.

As Alistair approached the Chantry, a chill went down his spine. The sound of the Chanter stationed outside, the sight of the Templars guarding the doors, and as he got even closer the scent of incense and dried roses... all these things threatened to overwhelm him with memories. Ever since Duncan had rescued him from the ranks of the Templar initiates, Alistair had avoided the Chantry like the plague. He only hoped he could find what he was looking for and leave quickly.

One of the Templars flanking the main doors clearly recognized Alistair. "Well, look at that. Come crawling back, have you? The Wardens didn't want you after all? I could have told them that." That voice. Alistair felt his luck run out like the last bit of sand in an hourglass. Sodding Maker, it was Ricard, his once-nemesis from the Redcliffe Chantry. It had been several years now since Ricard had been sent away and stationed in Denerim, but his hatred of Alistair still seemed to burn strong.

"And I thank you too, ser, for the warm reception." Alistair said, grimacing. It was amazing how time and distance made Ricard seem somehow smaller, more petty and far, far less imposing.

"What do you want, bastard? Come to conscript more inept initiates? Please, take them, we've got plenty! They'd be far more serviceable as Darkspawn food."

"My business is my business," Alistair told him. "The Chantry is no longer open to all who seek its wisdom? Does the Revered Mother know? I bet she'd have a thing or two to say about that."

"He's right, Ricard," the other Templar said. "So long as he's not here to cause trouble, why he's here is none of our business."

Ricard grumbled. "Get out of my sight, bastard, before I forget my manners."

"You can't forget something you've never known," Alistair said under his breath as he pushed his way through the heavy oaken doors. He heard Ricard turn with a snarl, but the other Templar said something harsh and Ricard didn't follow.

The serene humming undercurrent of noise in the main chantry hall enveloped Alistair as the outer door closed. Rarely was such a room truly quiet, for there were always Sisters, Templars, and various townsfolk about. Forcing the unpleasantness of his encounter with Ricard out of his mind, Alistair took a seat on one of the benches beneath the main altar. One of the sisters who were circulating around the nave would acknowledge him soon enough.

It was so very odd, sitting in the middle of a chantry as a visitor and not as a resident. He knew that Arl Eamon had made him attend Chantry services at times during his youth, but all of his more recent memories were tied to his Templar training. It was then that he realized that he hadn't said an honest to goodness prayer since he had left to join the Grey Wardens. He didn't feel guilty about this, but after ten years of forced daily prayer time, it certainly felt strange. Closing his eyes, Alistair fell back into the comfort of familiarity.

 _So. I suppose it's been awhile, Maker. Sorry about that, but the Grey Wardens are more into the whole Darkspawn thing rather than the holy flagellation thing. I'm sure you understand, they say the Darkspawn were your idea in the first place. I know I was never one of your more devoted followers, and you must have known that too, given that I all but stopped communicating with you as soon as I was no longer living under your roof. I do want to say thank you for allowing me to leave the Chantry. No hard feelings, I hope. You know me better than I know myself, or so the sisters always said, so you had to have known that there are better Representatives of your Divine Will running around Thedas. I also should thank you for sending Duncan to me. Without him... well, I really don't want to think about that. Know that I am grateful however, and I hope I can do more good in this world as a Grey Warden that I ever could have as a Templar. So let it be._

When he opened his eyes, he found that one of the sisters had come to stand next to where he was sitting. "You seemed so deep in thought, I didn't want to disturb you. Is there something I can do for you, my son?"

"You... don't recognize me then?"

The Sister grinned. "Should I?"

"I guess I just presumed that the Grand Cleric would have posted my picture far and wide, under the heading 'Smite On Sight'." Alistair smiled. "Never mind that, then. What I was really hoping to do was take a look through your archives. Birth records, specifically."

"Well, I can certainly help you with that. My name is Sister Katerina. Please, come this way..." The sister lead Alistair out one of the side exits, down a long hallway, and finally into a room full of dusty tomes. "Here is where we keep the records of the populace. Do you know where the person you are looking for was born?"

"Redcliffe Castle, to a serving maid named Arayanna. Or maybe it was Ariana. Something like that."

"What year?"

"9:11 Dragon. Sometime in August." Alistair watched as the sister positioned a ladder near one of the bookshelves and climbed up to one of the higher shelves...

 _Maker's Breath, Alistair,_ he chided himself mentally. _First a dwarf girl and now a Chantry sister? What is wrong with you today?_ He quickly turned his attention to a most interesting oil lamp sitting on a nearby table.

"Ah, here we are, Redcliffe Chantry records, 9:11 Dragon." She carefully climbed back down the ladder, Alistair averting his eyes until she was soundly back on the ground. "August, you said?" Placing the book on a nearby table, she flipped through the pages until she came to what she was looking for. "Hmmm... I'm not finding any records in August that include the name Ariana, or anything close to that name. Are you certain that's the right month?"

Alistair felt confused. "That's when the arl always gifted me with a present... sometime in late August."

"Give me a moment, and let me check some of the other months around it?"

Alistair nodded, unsure as to how to proceed. He was certain he would find something, but now he was embarrassed for getting his facts wrong and guilty for potentially wasting the sister's time.

Several minutes passed, Sister Katerina flipping through the bound pages and skimming their contents. "Ah hah! Here's a reference to an Ariana, but it's in Bloomingtide, not August..." She cleared her throat and began reading from the page. "5 Molioris. Ariana, kitchen girl in the arl of Redcliffe's household, gave birth to an unnamed son. Neither Mother nor Child survived the birthing process. Father unknown or unwilling to lay claim. Next of Kin: a daughter of 15 years, Goldanna."

Alistair felt numb. None of this was making any sense. "But... I swear that was the correct name. I mean, I suppose I could have been hearing wrong all those years..."

Sister Katerina looked at him oddly. "Not what you were expecting to find?"

"I certainly wasn't expecting to find myself listed as _dead_ , that's for certain."

"Wait... you believe that you are the unnamed child referred to in this entry?" She looked concerned. "I suppose it's possible... the records are simply too large to be 100% accurate... but they are normally not so out of line."

"Well I certainly don't feel very dead, that's for sure! Ah well. At least I know now that she died, I had always heard different rumors growing up. Everything from her being thrown out by the arl to her running off and joining an Antivan circus. Okay, maybe not the last part..." Alistair wondered why Arl Eamon had always been so circumspect the few times he'd asked about his mother, if the story was indeed so straightforward.

The sister simply nodded. She seemed very concerned about such a blatant inaccuracy in their records, but that was hardly Alistair's concern. After all, it was very much in his favor that he be alive instead of dead... which reminded him of the last bit of the entry.

"Sister, the entry mentioned a next of kin, yes? A daughter named Goldanna?"

"Why yes, it did... say, let me check something for you." Sister Katerina moved the ladder to another section of the records room, but fortunately did not need to climb as high this time. "That name sounds familiar, especially in the context of Redcliffe. One of the first wedding ceremonies I was involved in after being sworn to sisterhood was for a Goldanna of Redcliffe. She was rather... vocal about it, actually, lamenting that she had written to someone she'd known there about the wedding, but never heard back." Her voice caught awkwardly in her throat as she spoke, and she turned to flipping through the new book to focus her thoughts again. "Ah yes! '9:13, 18 Solace. William, son of Andrew of Denerim, married to Goldanna of Redcliffe.' I remember her as well for her many children, but it would take all day to find their birth records..."

"No, no, that's not necessary; you've already done more than I'd hoped for..." Alistair paled as he processed all the Sister had told him. "By Andraste's Grace, I have a sister! And you say she has children?"

"At least four or five of them, if memory serves... though I do believe the last two were born after her husband's mysterious disappearance... but that is neither here nor there." She smiled at him. "I understand she runs the laundry right off of the main market square, if you wanted to go introduce yourself."

"No!" Alistair replied, flustered. "I mean, yes, I want to, but I can't just, you know, show up there. Can I?"

"Well, it's up to you what you want to do. I'm just glad I could help you find her." The Sister was still grinning at him.

"And I do appreciate the help," Alistair replied. "Here, allow me to provide something to the Chantry in return for your assistance." He reached for the pouch at his belt, hoping what he brought would be a sufficient tithe. It was then that he realized his purse seemed distinctly less weighty than it had when he left the Grey Warden compound.

"What in the name of... my wallet's empty!" Alistair panicked a bit, both for worry as to where his money had gone as well as embarrassment for suddenly being in the awkward position of not being able to tithe properly. "I swear, Sister, I would have never asked for your help and shown up empty handed... Maker, the Sisters at Redcliffe will string me up by my toes if they ever find out..."

"Oh no, don't fret about it... you know, I don't believe I ever got your name. And I really should have it, so I can amend these records."

"Oh, sorry. My name is Alistair. Alistair of the, uh, of the Grey Wardens." He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, his nervousness threatening to overtake him.

"Ahhh... now I think I see why you wondered why I would recognize you. You're the Templar initiate who that Grey Warden stole out from under the Grand Cleric's nose, aren't you?"

"Which is why I know better than to show up without a proper tithe when asking for the Chantry's time."

"Please, Alistair, do not worry so." She lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned in so Alistair could hear her. "It is but a small repayment for the amusement you brought us all watching the Grand Cleric explode like an angry fishwife." She giggled, covering her mouth as she did so. "Andraste forgive us, but we laughed about that for weeks afterward!"

"Alright, if you say so." He shuffled on his feet, still uncomfortable with the idea. "Bloody thieves! May the Maker strike them down, or at least let them get caught next time."

Sister Katerina escorted Alistair to the main door of the chantry where they exchanged polite good-byes. The Templar guard outside had thankfully been changed since he entered, allowing him to pass through the doors without issue.

A sister. Well, a half-sister in truth, for it would be next to impossible for them to share the same father. But did that really matter? All this time, Alistair had been under the impression that he was alone in the world with no family to speak of, save the royal kind which wanted nothing to do with him. It was almost too unreal to contemplate.

Should he go and introduce himself? What would he say? What would _she_ say? She thought him dead, and for whatever reason had not remained in Redcliffe after their mother died. Her home couldn't be that far, if she was indeed the Goldanna that the sister knew of.

No. Not today. He needed to be getting back to the Warden compound, for if the King had left he would be expected to be there for afternoon drills. And besides, he wasn't quite ready to meet this long-lost sister of his as of yet. It was just too much for one day. He would be staying with the Grey Wardens in Denerim, right? There would be other days that he could slip away and go visit her, maybe even come more prepared with a gift or something. Maker be praised, nieces and nephews! Maybe he could get something for all of them as well.

Alistair hurried through the streets of the Market District before he could change his mind. Another day, he promised himself. There was plenty of time, no need to hurry.

Or at least, there had been time before the King had shown up and turned the Grey Warden compound into a frenzied bustle of activity. Alistair looked around, wondering what changed since he had been gone.

"'Ey, Alistair! Get your sorry ass over here and get to work!" Gregor, a huge and burly Grey Warden, called out to him as he entered the courtyard. "The King and Duncan have decided; we head to Ostagar before the week is out."

.oOo.

  



	11. A Warden's Duty: Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, this is a short chapter. Here's hoping the awesomeness of Daveth makes up for it.
> 
> But! Even the awesomeness of Daveth pales in comparison to the awesomeness of sagacious_rage, Wonder Beta!

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Duncan ~

* * *

Duncan rubbed his temples in frustration, the hustle and bustle of the Market District setting his nerves even more on edge. He had gathered almost all of the supplies they would need for their journey, but that didn't change the fact that they were leaving Denerim several days later than he had hoped. The majority of the Grey Wardens had left yesterday, headed to establish a base camp in the Korcari Wilds in the shadow of what was left of an ancient Tevinter outpost. Duncan wanted nothing more than to head out with them, but politics were yet again getting in his way. In a time when the Grey Wardens needed as many suitable recruits as they could find, turning down Teyrn Cousland's invitation to his tournament at Highever would be foolhardy. His Wardens were men, not little boys, and they would soon be joined by the likes of Teyrn Loghain and the king's armies. They would be fine without him. But this did little to assuage Duncan's heavy sense of responsibility. Battles would be fought and men would die before he would be able to join them, and he felt he at least owed those men his presence fighting at their sides.

He looked on as Alistair tightened the cinch around the belly of their donkey. "I think we've finally got everything, Duncan. I found everything on your list, and all of it's packed up on our faithful steed here." Alistair thumped the animal on its rump, and it brayed in response.

Duncan nodded. "Then if we're ready, we should be off. It's at least a week's journey to Highever, and we are already behind schedule."

"They're not like to start the tournament without you there, are they now?"

"Perhaps not," Duncan agreed, "but there is a very thin line between being fashionably late and an angry teyrn. And Highever's forces will be expected at Ostagar as well, I would presume. We risk angering both the Teyrn and the King if we are greatly delayed."

Initially, Alistair had yet again been put out when he had been told that he would be accompanying Duncan rather than joining the other Wardens going to Ostagar. Yet again, Duncan had to use the cover story of wanting Alistair along to help with recruiting. Duncan knew it was worth upsetting one young man, however, if it meant gaining the unyielding support of a king, but that didn't make him feel better about it. He wondered just how many years he would be expected to hold true to his initial promise to Maric to watch over the boy. If he had known at the time how long into Alistair's manhood that promise would take him, he may have been less likely to speak up all those years ago.

Just as they were turning to head through the city gates, Duncan felt the slightest tug on his belt. His arm lashed out in the direction of his purse, and he felt a hand slip out of his grasp.

"Stop!" Duncan called out after the cutpurse, though he instantly regretted it. What did he expect, the thief would just listen to him? Instincts kicking in, he turned and ran to attempt to catch his would-be pickpocket. A member of the City Guard happened to oversee their exchange. He too promptly took off after the cutpurse, elbowing his patrol partner in the process. It did not take long for the three of them to apprehend the thief, though it was the second City Guard who actually managed to catch him.

"Well well well," the first guard said as the cutpurse was brought before him. "If it isn't my old friend Daveth. And by friend, I mean pain in the ass."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Kylon, honestly!" the man protested. He struggled against the grip of the guard, but got nowhere.

"Really?" Kylon replied, giving the thief a significant look. "I wonder what our stalwart Grey Warden friend here has to say about that?"

Daveth the Cutpurse looked at Duncan as he approached, his face full of both fear and awe. "A Grey Warden? Bloody Maker's ass, of all the marks in all of Denerim..."

"I take it this scoundrel was bothering you, Duncan?" Sergeant Kylon was an old friend of Duncan's. Most of the guards hired by the Grey Wardens came from Kylon's ranks, for it was an assignment that could be given to some of the less stellar members of the Guard without causing offense. Few were stupid enough to molest the Grey Wardens in their own keep.

Duncan presented his purse, complete with incriminating slit at the bottom. "He may have been successful were I someone else, but I know the trade too well to fall victim to its tricks ."

"Don't you worry, Duncan. We'll lock him up for good this time. If a Grey Warden isn't safe on these streets, who is?" Kylon gestured to the other guard, who proceeded to bind Daveth's hands with a length of rope.

"That won't be necessary, Sergeant." Duncan found that he was actually impressed with the thief's abilities. What he had said was not wholly untrue. This Daveth did have some skill in slight of hand, which Duncan recognized because of his own years spent practicing the same craft. "I can take him off your hands for you."

"What, Duncan? Have you lost your mind?" Kylon exclaimed. "This man has been in our custody several times now, and always manages to escape or find some way to have his sentence reduced. He deserves the gallows. What use could you possibly have for him?"

"I could make him a Grey Warden. We need men with skills of all types, not just fighters, in order to fight the encroaching Darkspawn horde."

Kylon snorted. "Not a chance, Duncan. I respect you and your order too much to allow you to recruit such a low-life."

Duncan crossed his arms. "Then I invoke the Right of Conscription."

"Andraste's ass... alright, Duncan. You will always be something of a mystery to me, you know that?" Kylon shook his head. "But it's your business, I suppose. You must have more tolerance for incompetence than I do."

Duncan nodded. "Daveth, once you have been untied, please follow me. And don't get any ideas about running off. I don't believe the Sergeant is in a forgiving mood." He turned, heading back toward the North Gate and what was probably a very confused Alistair.

"Well what do you think of that?" he heard Daveth exclaim. "One minute I'm crow fodder, and the next I'm a sodding Grey Warden. Funny how things work out, eh, Kylon?"

"Just get out of here, you shiftless wretch," Kylon grunted. "IfI see you lift one finger out of line again, Grey Warden or no, I'm stringing you up from the nearest gallows. Understand?"

It did not take Daveth long to catch up with Duncan. "I should have made off with Grey Warden purses more often! I've never been rewarded before for snatching something, except by my own back-patting. And my belly. He's awful happy when I make a good strike."

"This is not a reward, Daveth," Duncan replied sullenly. "Becoming a Grey Warden is both an honor and a trial. We must sacrifice who we were to become what we are, and then some."

"Well, that sure doesn't bother me!" Daveth quipped. "What shall I give up first? Sleeping in dirty hovels? Going to bed hungry more often than not? Oh, how about the fleas? Yes, I think they'll be the first thing to go. Can I get a bath before we start out on our Grey Wardening?"

Duncan groaned. "I don't know if I can handle two jokesters on this trip."

"What makes you think I was joking? I'm fairly certain I smell as ripe as a midden heap."

It was going to be a very long journey to Highever.

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Daveth ~

* * *

Daveth simply could not believe his luck. When the Sergeant had told him he'd nicked the purse of a Grey Warden, one of the legendary Blight-fighting and gryphon-riding warriors of renown, he had thought he was done for. Why this Duncan had decided to make him one of his order, Daveth had no idea., Not that it mattered. He was alive. Even if he had to spend the rest of his days fighting monsters, that simply _had_ to be better than avoiding the monsters that reported to the Sergeant.

His ex-mark was headed toward a loaded pack beast, who looked suspiciously like a donkey and not at all like a gryphon. The beast's head was being held by someone who looked so confused that Daveth was convinced that the guy was hurting himself. He ran to join them as they approached.

"Duncan! What in the Maker's name happened?"

The commander's expression remained neutral. "I found a new recruit. Daveth, this is Alistair, a junior member of the order who will be traveling to Highever with us."

"Highever, eh?" Daveth replied. "Can't say I've ever been that far north. Should be interesting."

"Yes," Duncan said coldly. "And I expect you to keep it from becoming too interesting. We are going there at the invitation of the Teyrn himself, and I do not want to hear that my new recruit was caught slitting purses in the tournament crowd. Do I make myself clear?"

"Right-o, Duncan, ser. So long as the Grey Wardens intend that I not need to scrape by and feed myself."

"Wait," the junior Warden interjected. "He cut your purse, didn't he? And now you're recruiting him? Duncan, have you lost your mind?"

The old man rubbed his forehead, clearly frustrated. "Alistair, we have discussed this before, and I will not discuss Grey Warden recruiting standing in the middle of an open market." Daveth considered his fate, trekking across all of Ferelden with Righteous Mac Righterson and Stoneface Gravelypants. This should be a barrel of fun.

Might as well keep things interesting.

Daveth put on his most confident stride and walked over to Alistair, putting his arm around him. "Fear not, Junior Ser." He felt the other man tense up under his friendly touch. "This Warden thing sounds like a fine deal, and if it means no more knicking coin from the rich to feed Poor Daveth, then that's how it'll be. And you'll be with us to keep my hopeless self in line, right?"

"Right," Alistair grumbled in response, gingerly removing Daveth's arm from his shoulders. "You may kid now, but I'll be keeping an eye on you."

"Make sure you wash it off before putting it back in your skull then. I hate when I get dust in my eye, don't you, Duncan?"

Duncan ignored him, taking the donkey's lead in his hand. "We should be off. We have dallied enough for the day, and I'd like to get out of the shadow of Denerim before nightfall."

"Well then what are we waiting for?" Daveth asked. He bowed in Alistair's direction. "Wardens first, ser!" The other Warden narrowed his eyes at him as he turned and headed to follow Duncan. Daveth couldn't help but compare him to a stray puppy, traipsing after the butcher's wagon hoping that a scrap or two would fall into the dirt.

.oOo.

* * *

Daveth had never seen such a foreboding place in his life, and that included the looming spire of Fort Draken. Vigil's Keep, as Duncan had called it, looked more like something out of a fairy tale than a true castle, and not in the rainbows and magical clouds way. This was the home of the evil tyrant, where he kept the hapless and beautiful princess so as not to allow the mighty hero to save her from his villainous intentions. Even the green banners that flew from the tops of the towers were marked with menacing bear paws. He wondered if the tyrant ever used the princess for bear-baiting, just to watch the hero froth at the mouth from rage.

"So, what do you think they're keeping vigil against?" Daveth asked Alistair. "'Cause whatever it is, I don't think I want to meet it."

The ex-Templar snorted. "It does seem a bit over the top with the doom and gloom, doesn't it?"

Daveth chuckled. They were nearing the end of their fourth day out of Denerim, and Daveth had noticed that the clean-cut Chantry boy had begun to warm to his jokes, if only a little. Duncan, on the other hand, remained as stoic as ever.

As they approached the stone walls surrounding the keep, they were hailed by the guards standing watch. Daveth hung back, figuring that if Duncan wanted to be their leader he should be the one to have to deal with the dour glares and pointy objects. Ignoring their conversation, Daveth idly scanned the keep's outer wall. It was old, very old, and many of the stones seemed to be working loose. Daveth could have scaled it in the dark with one hand tied behind his back. Well, maybe not single-handed, but definitely with a painful hangnail. His attention snapped back to Duncan and the guards when he heard Duncan's voice grow louder.

"If you do not wish to support the Wardens in our efforts, then I suppose that is the decision of your arl to make. If I were he, however, I would consider that the king himself has issued a decree that all available forces join him at Ostagar to aid us in our efforts."

"If the Arl has received such a summons," one of the guards snapped, "he didn't feel the need to inform us of it. The only orders we have is that no strangers are allowed in. And you and your tavern tale warriors are about as strange as they come. Off with you, now."

"Very well. Alistair, Daveth," Duncan said, turning away from the gates, "It appears that we will need to find alternate accommodations for the evening."

"You're going to just let them turn us away?" Daveth had never been inside a real castle before, and as eerie as Vigil's Keep was, he had been rather looking forward to it. Castles had serving girls, and long dark hallways, and many, many vacant beds... "I thought Grey Wardens could pretty much go anywhere they pleased!"

"Only with the consent of the gentry," Duncan replied. "And defying wishes only leads to more trouble."

Daveth frowned. "You know Duncan, sometimes you have to break a few eggs to make off with the whole basket."

"And sometimes," Duncan replied, "you need to skip that basket and wait for a better mark entirely. We have our tents and plenty of supplies. Another night on the road will not kill us, but angering an arl could bring us more trouble than it would be worth."

"I didn't really want to go in there anyway," Alistair chimed in. "The place doesn't exactly give off an air of hospitality."

"Fine, fine," Daveth agreed begrudgingly. "Another night of sleeping with bugs on hard, rocky ground. Why, it's almost like I never left Denerim. There's more trees out here, though..."

He heard Duncan sigh heavily.

.oOo.

* * *

Much to Daveth's relief, their next night was spent in more pleasant accommodations. Amaranthine was a day's journey from Vigil's Keep, and appeared to have all the comforts of home. Stout walls, glowering guards, and those who kept to the shadows who were clearly up to nefarious deeds. It even smelled right, a mix of human stink and garbage and the sea. And wet dog, of course.

They took up lodging in the local pub, named The Crown and the Lion. Duncan retired to his room early, but not before informing Daveth and Alistair that the innkeep had graciously offered them free drinks for the evening. He had left with a stern warning not to take advantage of the man's generosity, lest the Wardens get a poor reputation in this town. Daveth had smiled and nodded as was expected. But honestly, he wondered, were a few tankards of ale really much of an imposition? Wardening was turning out to be thirsty work, even if it was just a lot of walking so far.

It was on the start of his third tankard of ale that Daveth saw That Look on Alistair's face, just as their pretty little dwarven serving maid turned away in a flash of cleavage and a well-rounded bottom.

"Saaay..." Daveth said, trying to keep his speech from slurring, "I think we have met before, ser."

Alistair jumped when he spoke, a pink blush crawling up his neck as he turned back to face Daveth. He swirled the ale in his mug nervously. Daveth couldn't believe that he was still only on his first glass. "What? We have? And for the last time, Daveth, I'm no 'ser'."

"Whatever you say, ser. Anyway, when I saw you ogling that fine stout lass over there," he gestured with his tankard as he spoke, "it hit me. You were one of the last marks I hit as a free man!"

"What?"

"Yeah, that's right. Just a few days before Duncan picked me up and made me a Warden. You were watching that blacksmith's daughter so intently that it would have been a crime not to slit your purse. Well, a crime from my belly's point of view, anyway. That git Kylon never saw it that way."

Alistair's face darkened. "You? You were the one who picked my pocket in the market that day? By all the spirits of the Fade, that money was for the Chantry! And you dared to... to... to take advantage of me like that!"

"Well, it all works out then." Daveth grinned. "You did a fine deed to help one of Denerim's lowest citizens. Me and Jenna just cut out the middleman. Or middlesister, I suppose."

"So there were two of you," Alistair scowled in frustration. "Great. Now I feel even more stupid for not noticing."

"Not strictly speaking." Daveth reached to his belt and pulled out his favorite knife, stabbing it into the wooden table. "Jenna, meet Alistair. You've met before, but never on a first name basis."

"Wait." The ex-Templar's anger had faded in the face of sheer confusion. Daveth grinned inwardly, fancying that he could actually see the blond man's brain straining to understand. "Jenna isn't a person, but your _knife_?"

Daveth quickly cupped his hands around Jenna's hilt. "Please ser, we do not speak such words in the lady's presence. She is a _dagger_ , of fine make who once belonged to an Antivan Crow. Or, well, an Antivan anyway, but I always had my suspicions about Ignatio."

"Right. You stole the knife from one of Thedas's most infamous assassins? I may have grown up in the Chantry, but I'm not _that_ gullible."

Daveth shook his head, laughing. "Of course not, but I'm sure flattered that you thought so." He watched the man's scowl deepen. "He lost it in a bet. Jenna and I have been inseparable ever since."

"Well, that's sweet and all, but it doesn't change the fact that you robbed me!"

"Tell ya what Ser Templar. Why don't I talk to the innkeep, see if maybe I can hire that pretty dwarf to spend some quality time with you tonight. Then I can pay you back and you'll thank me for the privilege." He tried not to smirk. Well, not _too_ broadly, anyway.

The Chantry boy turned beet red. "Uh... no, that won't be necessary. I suppose the money did go to someone in need." He cleared his throat. "I think I'm going to go to bed now, before you come up with any more crazy ideas." Pushing himself away from the table, Alistair made a hasty retreat up the stairs to their room.

Daveth reached over and snatched up Alistair's half-empty tankard. It would be a shame to let it go to waste after all.

The next morning, Alistair and Duncan found Daveth in the kitchen pantry, waking him with a painfully bright beam of light as they opened the door. He groaned, squeezing his head to try and counter the pounding drumbeats inside it.

"The kitchen girl told us where to find you," Duncan said, disapproval thick in his tone. "Or more correctly, she blushed and pointed toward this door." Alistair scowled beside him, the pup picking up and running with the wrath of his master. "Come, Daveth, we have many miles to cover before we get to Highever."

"Andraste's bloody knickers," Daveth cursed. Alistair gasped, while Duncan simply continued to scowl. "Alright, alright, I'm coming." He rolled off of the sacks of flour that he had apparently been sleeping on, and groggily found his feet. "Tell me, was it the blonde or the dwarf that did the pointing?"

"The dwarf," Alistair snipped.

Daveth couldn't help but smile, even though it hurt to do so. "Aw now, come my friend. Jealousy isn't becoming on a fine upstanding Warden like yourself."

Alistair stormed out of the room, his ears a delightfully wicked shade of pink. Duncan cleared his throat behind him, encouraging Daveth out of the kitchen and into the even brighter common room.

It was going to be a very long journey to Highever.

.oOo.


	12. A Warden's Duty: Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This specific chapter is definitely NSFW
> 
> Thanks to my homegirl betas, sagacious_rage and neaira_awakened. :D

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Duncan ~

* * *

The traffic on the North Road had slowly increased the closer they came to Highever. Duncan did not think that all of the traffic was due to the teyrn's impending tournament. Most of its attendees would already be there awaiting their arrival, but it clearly was having an effect on things.

Castle Cousland was visible from some distance away, due to the way the road cut through the hilly terrain. The full magnitude of those who had answered the teyrn's call was made clear to them as they crested the last hill before reaching the keep. Duncan couldn't help but sigh at the sight of the teeming crowd filling the valley; knights, squires, merchants, and spectators all peppered the crowds. There was even a small grouping of pure-white tents flying the flaming sword of the Templars on their pennants. He glanced over at Alistair, but the boy showed no sign of having noticed.

"Impressive," Daveth interjected as he joined them. He looked sidelong at Duncan. "You still holding firm on the no lifting purses thing? Surely the teyrn wouldn't make the connection to us?"

"Quite firm, Daveth," Duncan replied. "Remember, you are not a Grey Warden until you undergo the Joining. Do not think that I would hesitate to levy justice in the interim." He didn't like to think about that possibility, but there was no turning back between recruitment and the Joining ritual. Duncan would do his duty if necessary, but there was no need to explain just how far that duty extended. A man with Daveth's instincts would disappear in the night if he knew the truth.

"There would be such tournaments in Redcliffe from time to time..." Alistair said as he continued to scan the crowd. "The Templars would participate, but I never got to that point in my training."

Daveth tried to catch Alistair's gaze as they descended the hillside. "Redcliffe, eh? Never been their neither. Is it more like this place-" he gestured toward Castle Cousland as he spoke, "Or is it more like Howe's Looming Castle?"

"More like this," Alistair replied. "The main keep up on a hill with the town below it. Though I suppose this is more of a tent city than Highever proper..."

"The city of Highever is further north of here, a port much like Amarathine," Duncan supplied. "Though, I'm sure many from there have set up shop here." The size of the entire endeavor made Duncan uneasy. It was good to see that the Grey Wardens still received this level of respect, but it didn't change the fact that Duncan's experience had taught him that these artificially selected recruits were notoriously ill-suited to becoming Grey Wardens. Regardless, he would keep his eyes open. There may be others about who would be more suitable than those fighting and winning tournament bouts.

About halfway along their journey down into the valley, four mounted soldiers wearing the Cousland livery approached them. "Greetings, travelers," their leader called out as they approached and came to a halt. "We were told to watch for one of your description. Tell me, are you Duncan, Commander of the Grey in Ferelden?"

"I am known by such a title, but 'Duncan' will suffice, thank you," Duncan said as he stepped forward.

"Teyrn Cousland has erected a pavilion for your use, Ser Duncan."

"As I said, just 'Duncan' will suffice." He heard Daveth snort quietly to himself.

"His Grace asked that we apologize on his behalf for not giving you and yours quarter in Castle Cousland itself. Several of the teyrn's banns are here in response to the king's summons, and there is simply no place left to lodge you. If you would be so kind as to accompany us?"

"It is of little concern. Please thank the teyrn for his hospitality."

A chuckle echoed from within the knight's helmet. "Chances are very good that you'll be able to thank him soon enough yourself. Rymun," he called out, and one of the other soldiers snapped to attention. "Take word to Teyrn Cousland that the Grey Wardens have arrived."

"Aye, ser," the knight replied, quickly turning his horse and galloping back down into the valley.

The knight-commander dismounted from his horse to join the Wardens on foot, the other two soldiers following his example. "Riding horses, huh?" Daveth said as he approached the roan beast. "In Denerim, if you see one of those at all they're pulling carts, not hauling around people."

"The teyrn keeps some, though not many," the knight replied. "He brought back two breeding pairs from Orlais on one of his trade missions a few years ago. Heard it was a right mess, getting them on the ship..."

"And once they were on the ship too, I figure!" Daveth smiled as he rubbed the horse's nose.

"Some of the smallfolk scorn the poor animals," he continued. "Bad memories or repeated tales of the Orlesian occupation I think, when riding was restricted to Orlesian nobles and chevalier."

"I was barely a pup when the Orlesians were driven out, so I don't remember much," Daveth admitted

"The teyrn thinks they're useful for more than grunt work, so we train on them and use them for patrolling the outlands. They're quite useful in situations like these-" he said, indicating the mobs of tents and people they were rapidly approaching, "where there are lots of people in one place."

"We only had one horse in the stables at Redcliffe, when I was young," Alistair admitted. "I was usually the one assigned to take care of it. I hated that beast."

The guard laughed. "Ah yes, the arlessa there is from Orlais, is she not?"

"She is," Alistair replied flatly. Duncan watched the boy closely, but he seemed to be in control of himself. He backed out of the conversation then, clearly not wanting to continue on that line.

"There are some knights and soldiers here from Redcliffe, ser. Friends of yours perhaps?"

"I doubt it."

"A shame, that. Some returned to Redcliffe once word of the king's summons arrived, but others stayed on. If you change your mind, I can direct to you where they're pitched their tents."

"That won't be necessary, thanks," Alistair's tone grew even darker.

It was then that they passed alongside the furthermost tent of the congregation, and the hustle and bustle increased tenfold. One of the knights returned to his horse, bellowing out to those in front of them in an attempt to part the crowds.

"Make way! Make way for the Commander of the Grey Wardens!"

Duncan groaned, keeping his gaze firmly implanted on the mounted guard. He had asked for none of this, and especially not the slack-jawed wide-eyed stares he could feel boring into him. But the sooner they arrived in their pavilion, the sooner the stares would stop.

It felt like winding their way through the throngs of people took hours before they arrived at their destination. "The teyrn's own traveling pavilion, Duncan, ser," the knight-commander said with a slight bow. "Outfitted to mark its new residents, of course,"

The canopy walls had been dyed the dark blue that marked the Couslands' shields, ivory white tasseling adorning the various corners and fringes. From the top of the tallest tent flew a flag of a similar blue color, adorned with a white gryphon rampant.

The entire setup made Duncan wish for the simple tents packed in their donkey's packs, but it would not do to offend the Bryce Cousland's hospitality. "An impressive setup, ser knight. We shall be able to settle in ourselves. Thank you for your assistance."

"Sers Nicolas and Robison will be assigned as your guards, not that you are likely to need them in that capacity, of course." The two other knights saluted Duncan in response to their commander's words. "That is to say, after we have returned the horses to their stables for the other knights to use for crowd control..."

"...that won't be necessary, Ser Michael," came a new voice from behind them. Duncan turned to see Teyrn Bryce Cousland and several others had joined them. "I brought extra men with me to collect the horses. You are dismissed."

Knight-Commander Michael bowed and saluted his teyrn, disappearing into the crowd of armored men that accompanied him.

"Teyrn Cousland, it has been some time," Duncan said as he extended a hand in friendship.

"It certainly has, Duncan." Bryce Cousland had greyed significantly since the last time Duncan had met with him, but otherwise he was the same stalwart man. "I don't believe you've met my son, Fergus?"

"I haven't had the pleasure," Duncan replied. He turned to greet the boy, who was more a man, in truth. "It is an honor, Bann Fergus. I don't suppose we'll be seeing your martial skills on display in the upcoming days?"

The teyrn's son laughed. "No, no, not I. I'm not completely hopeless with a blade, but my skills are not particularly noteworthy. Besides, I think my wife would put out a missive to the Antivan Crows were I to run off and join the Wardens. No offense to your order of course, Ser Duncan."

"None taken. I'm sure there are plenty of skilled warriors here. No need to deprive Highever of its teyrn's son and heir."

Fergus grinned. "My sister, on the other hand..."

"...does not appreciate being spoken of as if she were not present."

Teyrn Cousland turned to face the young woman standing to his other side, but he did not move quickly enough. She stepped forward and clasped Duncan's hand firmly in her own, the mabari at her heels matching her stride. "My name is Elisara Cousland, Ser Duncan. It is an honor to meet you and those of your esteemed order."

"And it is an honor to meet you as well, Lady Elisara." Duncan now understood the basis for the rumors he had heard about the teyrn's daughter, or at least the ones that were spoken out in the open. She wore her armor as if it were a second skin. Twin matching daggers graced her hips, their leather grips dark with signs of use. But her most striking feature had to be her strawberry-red hair. It had been dyed to be a similar shade as the actual berry, and it made Duncan question why it was common parlance to call those with reddish blonde hair by a similar description.

Vague memories of the strange fads that plagued the young nobles of Val Royeaux flitted through his mind. Had he ever been that young? It was becoming harder and harder to remember.

Bryce sighed audibly. "Maker's Breath, Elisara, I was just about to introduce you. And you know your brother speaks the truth, but we have spoken of this." The girl's face turned stony, but she nodded in agreement. "I do apologize, Duncan. Elisara's tongue does give her sword a run for its money at times. Both are sharp and wielded with skill, and at times can do a lot of damage."

"Father, please. The Wardens may conscript whomever they like, from beggar to king." The mabari barked, seeming to agree with the girl's words.

"We have spoken of this, Ellie. There are plenty of others who have journeyed far to vie for the chance to join your order. We shall leave the position of honor at stake here for those who would benefit from it more."

Duncan nodded, forcing a smile. It was as he expected, but now was not the time to confront the teyrn with his proposal. "As you say, Your Grace. I have no intention of conscripting your daughter at the present time."

"Very well, then. I trust the accommodations are to your liking?"

"They are more than sufficient, Your Grace," Duncan replied with a polite nod. "There are but three of us here, and we are used to much more humble accommodations to be certain."

The teyrn smiled, patting Duncan on the shoulder. "Good, good. I presume you and your men will join us in the main hall for your evening meal to celebrate your arrival?"

"We would be honored, Your Grace."

"Then we shall await you at your convenience." Teyrn Cousland turned to the two knights flaking the pavilion entrance. "Nicolas, Robison, escort the Wardens to the castle once he and his men are settled in." The knights saluted as the teyrn and his entourage turned to leave.

Daveth watched them go with great interest. He whistled under his breath once they were out of earshot. "Now there's a wench with fire in her! I'm surprised her doting father doesn't keep her locked in a tower."

"Leave the dealings between us and the teyrn to me, Daveth. These situations are always delicate, even when those involved have known each other for many years."

"Sure, sure... still, I can't help but think what fun it'd be to pick her pocket, if you kn-"

"And that's quite enough of that kind of talk, Daveth." Duncan scowled at his new recruit, but relented quickly, chiding himself for his hypocrisy. A teyrn's daughter was no anonymous mage locked in a tower, however. "There are plenty of other opportunities for such entertainment at events such as these. If you must find them, stick to those who wear skirts and not daggers, for your own safety."

"Why Duncan," Daveth said with a chuckle, "I had no idea you were such a prude! The ones who know how to properly wield a dagger are _always_ the best between the sheets."

Duncan's scowl grew deeper. "I am through with this discussion."

"Suit yourself. I think we broke Pretty Boy over there, so you're at least doing better than he is!"

Duncan turned to regard Alistair. He could not tell if it was shock or disgust that painted his face with such a disturbing continuance. "Are you alright, Alistair?" he asked warily.

The words broke Alistair's stare. He snorted. "So, she finally got a mabari. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." He turned and began fumbling with the straps holding their bundled belongings.

He must remember the Couslands from his time under Arl Eamon's care, Duncan realized. This was surprising, since it was Duncan's understanding that Eamon had kept him out of court matters as a matter of course. But small, curious boys had a way of getting into places where they did not belong. Either way, it was none of his business. Alistair's past had been decided for him by others. It was his future that was in Duncan's hands.

.oOo.

  


* * *

  


~ Daveth ~

* * *

The last few drops of ale clung stubbornly to the bottom of Daveth's tankard. It was the best ale he had had, well, in as long as he could remember.

Granted, his memory had gone more than a bit fuzzy around the edges.

Within moments of setting his empty tankard down on the teyrn's most impressive table, an elven wench provided him with a replacement. A pretty little thing, Daveth supposed, if you liked your women scrawny and half-starved. Daveth had seen plenty of those women on the streets of Denerim. Even the ones pretty enough to demand decent coin were still a dime a dozen. That Cousland girl however... well-fed, well-bred, and muscular in ways that promised a much more _interesting_ time than a street whore who would mostly just lie there and wait for you to finish your business.

And that hair! He had never seen the like. Did the Couslands keep a court mage or something equally opulent? When he had seen her earlier it was pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck, simple and stark, for truly, having it done up like he'd heard they did in Orlais would have almost been overwhelming. He supposed it could be an expensive dye, the likes that only the wealthy Teyrn of Highever could afford to buy for his only daughter. It was a true shame that she had not decided to join them for this most fancy dinner.

He glanced across the table, smirking slightly as he watched the eyes of his Templar companion snap

guiltily away from the serving girl's bosom. Apparently the contents of his plate were a far more acceptable subject of focus.

"Hey, it's alright, Temple-toes. You're a Warden now, you can admire the view! In fact, the more often you drain your tankard, the more often she'll pop by and you can grab another look-see!"

Alistair's ears turned pink as he picked at his vegetables.

"Or are you still upset about the dwarf girl in Amaranthine? Having both wandering eyes and a long memory will only lead a man to trouble, you know."

"Leave the boy alone, Daveth," Duncan scolded him tersely under his breath. "This is neither the time nor the place."

"I'm only thinking of his education, Duncan," Daveth replied with a shrug. "Poor Alistair's been kept away in a monastery through all his formative years. He has a lot of catching up to do, if you know what I mean."

If one person could contain the wrath of the Maker, Duncan's face showed that he was trying to do just that.

Alistair still remained silent, though noticeably redder.

"So, Duncan, tell me." Teyrn Cousland's voice broke through, promptly demanding attention. "What do we know of this darkspawn horde? The message we got from King Cailan was rather... exuberant."

The teyrn's son chuckled. "That's one way of putting it, Father, I suppose."

Duncan smiled knowingly. "The Warden scouts we had in the area report that they saw thousands. There was no sign of an Archdemon rising however, for which we are duly thankful."

"So it is not a true Blight then?"

"No... at least not as of yet. I can't help fearing for the worst however. The darkspawn do not normally come to the surface in such great numbers without cause."

"Rest assured," Teyrn Cousland said, voice full of noble pride, "that I have called my banners and will be joining you and the King as quickly as we are able to assemble."

"For that, I am unspeakably grateful, Your Grace."

"You didn't happen to pass by Rendon Howe and his forces on your way here, did you Duncan?"

"No, we did not," Duncan replied uncomfortably. "Our request for shelter at Vigil's Keep was denied. I had hoped that he was here, or at least on his way."

"Rendon can be a... private man, at times," Teyrn Cousland replied. "Still, it concerns me that he would not provide quarter to the Grey Wardens when it was requested of him. I shall speak to him about this matter when he arrives, I swear it."

"As you wish, Your Grace, but no offense was taken."

Nobles were like merchants, Daveth realized as he polished off his tiny steak. They horde their coin close and spend their fancy words like water. And they clearly don't have any idea how much food it takes to fill a grown man! The steak he had been given was tasty enough, but only one? And so small! Maker, if this is how nobles ate he wondered why there were so many starving in the streets. They clearly weren't taking all the food for themselves.

Duncan and Teyrn Cousland exchanged more words, but Daveth pretty much ignored them. Sadly, there was not much else to distract him. Alistair had turned mute, the younger teyrn's wife seated next to him only had eyes for her husband, and the teyrna two seats down from Daveth was being painfully polite. For whatever reason, where others now saw a Grey Warden, Hero of Tales and Legends, Teyrna Whitehair clearly still saw a lowly street thief. The empty chair between them did not help matters.

Soon enough, a proper distraction entered the room through one of the side doors. Maker be praised, the teyrn's daughter _was_ joining them. "Ah, Elisara, how good of you to grace us with your presence," Teyrna Whitehair remarked upon her arrival.

"My apologize, Mother. I had to cut up an extra portion for Horace again. He wolfed down his dinner and Nan refused to give him more. It wouldn't do for him to starve to death, now would it?"

Daveth grinned as the girl sat down in the empty chair between him and the teryna. He couldn't help but appreciate the improvement in his surroundings.

"Honestly child, you spoil that dog. A mabari is a privilege, not a furry doll that walks."

Elisara laughed, a hearty laugh, not at all a lady's bird-like warble. "It's either 'spoil' him or have him decide that one of the servants looks like a tasty treat. And how would we possibly hire any new help if word got out that the Couslands let servants become dog morsels?"

Daveth's grin grew even larger. "A full dog is a happy dog, aye. And none take more filling than a Fereldan mabari."

"See Mother? The Grey Warden understands." She flashed him a wonderfully wicked smile. No shrinking violets here, no ser.

"The Grey Warden would be wise to keep his opinions to himself, unless we are discussing darkspawn or the upcoming tournament." He did not need to see Teyrna Whitehair's scowl in order to hear it in her voice.

"As it pleases Your Ladyship," Daveth replied flippantly.

He felt Duncan kick him beneath the table, and he was thankful that they had come to dinner fully armored. "You will address the teyrna as Your Grace, if you must address her at all."

"Right-o, Duncan."

Both Duncan and the teyrna groaned audibly.

"Don't mind her," Elisara mumbled, leaning over toward him. "She just doesn't like any dog that grows bigger than a loaf of Orlesian sweetbread."

Daveth nodded in response, patting the girl on the thigh under the table. To her credit, she did not shy away or shout. In fact, her face lit up, first in surprise and then in curiosity.

Oh yes indeed, he could get used to this Wardening thing.

The dinner dragged on, the conversation mostly circling around Duncan and Teyrn Cousland speaking of the darkspawn horde, techniques for battling them, and that Ostagar place Duncan was constantly on about. Daveth was surprised that his beautiful neighbor did not contribute to the conversation. "Something wrong, Milady Warrior-Princess?" he asked.

She snorted quietly. "My father is still sticking to his absurd notion that I will be remaining in Highever while he goes south to fight in King Cailan's war."

"Elisara," Teyrna Whitehair snapped beside her. "We will not be discussing our private, family business over dinner with guests, do you understand?"

She responded through clenched teeth. "I was just answering the Grey Warden's question, Mother."

"Please, my lady, it's Daveth. I'm still new to this Wardening thing."

"Clearly," the teyrna interjected sharply.

"I'm certain your father simply values your... experience, my lady," Daveth said, accentuating the last word with a meaningful eyebrow twitch.

"If he did," Elisara replied, "he would allow me to fight in the upcoming tournament."

"That is quite enough, young lady." Teyrna Cousland leaned forward and glared at Daveth. "I would respectfully ask the Grey Warden to keep his opinions about my daughter to himself."

"Certainly, Your Grace." Daveth bowed his head over-dramatically.

"I agree, Daveth," Duncan added. "We must do to remember that we are here at the teyrn's pleasure."

Daveth sighed, consoling himself that there had to be some kind of a wine seller or makeshift tavern down in the valley where he could find more amicable conversation. No group of men came together without having access to some kind of alcohol . Unless they were Templars, he supposed, glancing across the table at Alistair. Had he actually just taken a sip from his mug?

By the Maker, that boy needed to find the bottom of a beer keg and a willing woman.

The dinner dragged on. Daveth kept his mouth busy draining his flagon, but surreptitiously he watched the Cousland girl beside him. A strange mix of back alley rogue and highborn lady, she was, and beautiful to boot.

"Will you be at Father's pavilion later, Ser Warden?" she mumbled over her dessert, Teyrna Whitehair momentarily distracted by a conversation with her husband.

"I'll be wherever you want me to be, my red lady," Daveth said, trying desperately not to slur his speech too badly.

"Look for me after midnight then. I wish to discuss your impressions of my 'experience'"

"With regard to the Wardens, of course."

"Of course."

.oOo.

* * *

He was kissing her, wedged between a pile of dirty laundry and her round, pert breasts. A fearful thought ran through the back of his mind, wondering just how soon her husband would be returning. It gave a frenzied intensity to the whole experience.

But when had her hair turned so red?

Daveth started awake, his head still spinning from the teyrn's ale. Is that why she was still here, even when he was awake? Wait, no. This was not the washer woman, this was...

She replaced her finger where her lips had been, silencing him. "This way," she whispered.

Daveth barely remembered making his way back to the tent pavilion with the other Wardens. He also didn't remember changing out of his armor, because clearly he had passed out on the provided cot while still wearing it. But he was quite certain that she had not been with them at the time. He would have remembered _that_.

He nodded dumbly and followed her to the far side of the tent. Alistair snored quietly on a similar cot on the other side of the room. Daveth pitied the poor boy, but initiating the boy into the cult of manhood would have to wait for another night. No need for such a fine specimen of womanhood to perform such a mundane task.

"Though here," Lady Cousland instructed. She slipped through a small break in the tent wall, wiggling in ways that Daveth couldn't help but appreciate. He followed suit as soon as her feet slipped through the opening, slipping into the summer night.

She grabbed his hand, gesturing toward the nearby trees. They slipped off together, the guards stationed outside the pavilion entrance ignorant of their movements. It did not take long for the ambient noises to change from those of a human encampment to those of the forest.

"So where are we going, my lady? Some abandoned woodcutter's cottage? Or are we taking a basket of goodies to Grandma?"

Lady Elisara smiled. "I have my own place up in the hills. You'll see." She grinned wickedly, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. "Got the idea from a friend of mine, though mine is a true cave and not just an overhang of rock."

"A friend, or a 'friend'?" Daveth asked. Yep, he was still drunk.

Elisara took on a haughty air. "Does it matter?"

"Of course not, oh fearsome red lady," Daveth replied. "Just making conversation."

"Save it for when we arrive. We'll have plenty of time to talk then."

"So long as it's not only talking you're after in the middle of the night..."

"We shall see, Ser Warden," she replied coyly. "All in good time."

It had certainly better be good after being forced to stumble through the woods in the dark of night, Daveth grumbled to himself. Fortunately, it did not take much longer to arrive at their destination. He smelled the fire within before seeing the faint glow which revealed the entrance. The very small entrance that required Elisara to crawl on hands and knees to access. The same lovely view twice in one night. Daveth feared that his luck would not hold true, but there was no chance of him giving up on luck just yet.

The cave was roughly shaped like a dog's leg, sharply turning to the right about twenty paces or so from the entrance. The left side featured a small alcove, which was where the small fire had been set earlier. Her ladyship threw several logs on it, building the flames back up so as to better light the small cavern. In the corner opposite the dog-leg chamber was a thick pile of pelts, which was where his warrior woman was heading. She patted the place where she wished Daveth to sit, and he hurried to join her.

"I'd offer you a proper chair, but as you can see, I don't have one at present."

"That's alright, milady Firehair. This seat seems much more comfortable, don't you agree?" Daveth grinned wickedly.

"Firehair? Do you mean that in the 'burns so bright as to rival the sun' way, or in the 'wildfire out of control' way?"

"Can't it be both wrapped into one?" He reached up, running his fingers through the bits of hair around her face. "I've never seen the like, in all my days. Plenty of redheads, sure, plenty of blondes trying to _be_ redheads..."

"It's a special dye, laced with lyrium. I found it in a particularly disreputable shop in Highever years ago, and haven't stopped using it since. Mother is convinced that I'll grow out of it, which is mostly why I've kept it up to be honest."

Daveth chuckled, reaching around to the leather tie that held most of her hair back. "I want to witness it in its full glory."

"Go right ahead."

He removed the tie, placing it on the makeshift bed. Elisara shook her head, her hair falling around her shoulders and over her armor-accentuated breasts. "Maker's Balls... that must take a lot of dye."

Elisara giggled. "And bleach! But we did not come here to discuss my hair, Ser Warden."

"Call me Daveth."

"Only if you call me Elisara."

"I much prefer Firehair, but if you insist..."

She giggled more. "Firehair is fine, Daveth." She began fumbling with the buckles of his leather armor. "Daveth, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. You look like the type of man who can keep secrets."

"I'm good at finding them out too, Milady Firehair. But your secret will be save with me, Warden's Honor."

"I thought you said you weren't a true Warden yet."

"I'm practicing."

"Fair enough," she said, grinning. "There will be an unknown warrior in the upcoming tournament, wearing unmarked armor and bearing a shield with a snarling mabari on it." She began loosening the buckles on her own armor. "I want you to make sure that Ser Duncan takes notice of the warrior's skills."

"Another 'friend' of yours?" Daveth asked as he shrugged out of his under-armor padding.

"You could say that, but not in the way you mean," Elisara explained as her own armor fell away. She reached behind her neck to untie her own armor padding.

"Allow me," Daveth offered, reaching around her and undoing the knotted strings. He nuzzled and licked her now-bare neck as he worked, making his way down her shoulders as the undershirt fell away. He moved his hands to the clasp at the back of her breast bindings.

"So you will do this for me, Daveth?" She wedged her head between his face and her shoulder, catching and holding his gaze.

"That and more, my red lady. Much, much more..."

"Then hurry up and get that damned thing off of me," she commanded, cutting off his laughing response with a hungry kiss.

Soon enough they were both naked and tangled among one another on the pallet of furs. Daveth found his head resting on a fuzzy furred pillow, Elisara straddling him, even more stunning in the firelight. He took the tip of one of her breasts in his mouth, licking and sucking as she ground her hips against him. She threw back her head and moaned as Daveth reached around and ran his hands along her backside. His manhood burned with need as she rubbed against it. It sure did not take her long to be ready for him, and he wondered if she was just so repressed by Daddy and Mommy Dearest that anything remotely illicit got her wet as a summer melon.

It really didn't matter how or why she was so worked up, he supposed. What mattered was that she was here, with him, and there was no Teryna Whitehair or Duncan the Sour Pickle here to stop them from following through on that fact the way that the Maker intended.

He spent some time massaging her tiny pleasure center gently, and her moans became throatier. When he removed his hand she shifted her hips and sought out his cock. Was he sure he wasn't still asleep? Except for the husband bit, this was very reminiscent of his dream earlier.

Coherent thought soon escaped him, and he no longer cared if she was a laundress, a teryn's daughter, or a well-trained whore. She rode him hard and rough, one hand grasping an outcropping on the side of the cave, the other pinching and rubbing one of his nipples. He grabbed her hips, torn between pulling her to him faster or trying to slow her down and prolonging the experience.

Soon enough, she arched her back and cried out to the Maker. He felt her muscles quiver and spasm around him, and it was all he could do to hang on to his composure. "Oh, Firehair... Firehair..."

"Daveth," she answered, his name coming in a breathy explosion. It was more than he could handle. Maker, _she_ was more woman than most men could handle. His vision went blurry as he felt his pleasure overwhelm him. She must have seen it on his face or something, for her she accompanied him with several more pulsing thrusts.

Holy Maker, she was _good_ at this.

She was still above him, panting for breath and covered in sweat.

"I think you would make a most stunning warden, my lady," he whispered hoarsely as he caressed her hanging breast. "I'll do my best to point you out to Duncan whenever I can."

"How do you know it would be me fighting?"

"Why else go through the bother of dragging me out to your hookup cave in the middle of the night?"

Elisara stared at him, wide-mouthed. "Hookup cave?"

"You're going to have to try harder to pull a fast one on old Daveth, Firehair."

She laughed. "I suppose so." She disengaged herself and curled up next to him.

"I can see it now," Daveth joked, running his hand in an arc above them. "Elisara Firehair, Princess of Wardens."

"Now you're just being silly."

Daveth hummed his agreement. He had no idea how close to dawn it was, but he knew he was tired. It did not take long for him to start drifting off to sleep. He was warm and mostly dry, slightly tipsy, and had a beautiful fiery woman at his side.

Being a Grey Warden was a fine thing, yes indeed.

.oOo.


End file.
